


Iron, almond and ash

by Mayhail



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Gen Work, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 73,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhail/pseuds/Mayhail
Summary: Stiles has been back in Beacon Hills for less than a day, and he already has to deal with three problems. One, he’s haunted by a ghost. Two, Malia’s gone missing. And three, he's been cursed and cannot talk about the people who took her. All of this could almost be manageable if Malia and Scott weren't getting married in four days. Armed with only his wits and Derek's help, Stiles will take considerable—or stupid, according to Derek—risks to bring her back in time.





	1. That's not the way home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on AO3, and I'm not entirely sure of the whole tagging thing, so if you have any suggestions, don't hesitate!  
> This story is entirely written and I will post one chapter a week on Wednesdays.

Stiles is at the bar, ordering his second mojito, before he even allows himself to sit with his friends. He looks back at the table where everyone's waiting for him; Scott hails him over, but he shrugs, nodding at the barman still preparing his drink. He may be stalling, but in his defense, he's had a pretty bad day, and he doesn't want to get them down. Werewolves and their creepy pheromone thing.

When he finally gets his hands on his drink, he fidgets on the glass, tapping his finger in a rhythm only known to his subconscious, and tries to push back everything that's wrong with him before he can say hi.

“You’re stinking nervousness.”

Stiles jumps. He looks around, panicked, until he finds himself face to face with Derek. Then he breathes out and answers, his voice almost drown by the beat of the music.

“Seriously, don't sneak on people like that. Why can’t werewolves ever announce themselves? There's rum all over my hands.” He stares down to evaluate the extent of the damage. “And my shirt. Also, normal people ask, 'are you okay,’ they don't talk about smells, you creep.”

“Are you okay.” There's nothing in Derek's tone that could suggest a question. He's simply repeating Stiles’ words.

“Yes, I am just fine. Wet, apparently smelly, but fine.”

Derek grabs a napkin and shoves it at Stiles, who uses it to wipe his hands. “You don't smell fine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I had a bad day, that's all.” Derek doesn’t answer, but Stiles has never met a silence he couldn’t fill with a somewhat coherent string of words. “This morning, Lydia threw an empty suitcase at me to wake me up, and then bossed me around until it was filled, all the while complaining that we were going to be late. Spoiler alert, despite a monstrous traffic jam that only finished at the airport parking lot, we still had an hour to check in. That would be enough to make anyone a giant pack of nerves.”

Stiles doesn’t talk about the ghost, because the loud music and the strobe lights don’t invite any discussion about ghosts. Instead, he looks down at his shirt and gives up before even trying to dry it with his now wet napkin. On the plus side, maybe he now smells more like rum than nervousness and he won't freak out Scott by sitting across him. He mixes his mojito and then drinks half of it in big gulps.

“Also,” he then adds, “can anyone explain to me what the hell we’re doing on a Tuesday night at _Jungle_ of all places?”

“It’s Scott's bachelor party,” Derek states as if it answered the question.

“I know that, I didn't come in because I saw the light was on. But who thought a gay club was the best place to throw it?”

“Mason and Corey, I guess.”

“The puppies,” he says with all the spite he can muster. He actually likes Mason, Corey, Liam, and Alec, but he's a bit jealous that they stayed in Beacon Hills and that they're stealing his best friend. Which is ridiculous, because he couldn't run away fast enough. “Well, I'm the best man, and I probably would have chosen better, if I'd been asked.”

But the truth is, Stiles was busy. Stiles is busy all the time these days, and the reason he struggled so much to wake up this morning is that he's only gotten to bed after the sun has risen. Stupid job. Stupid sun. Stupid party. It had been an endless battle to get four consecutive days off, and he honestly would have preferred ghouls and necromancers to fighting his boss nail and tooth, especially when he never asks for time off.

“And I certainly wouldn't have...” he mumbles before remembering that there are werewolves in the room. So instead of finishing his sentence, he takes his phone from his slacks pocket and texts Derek.

_I wouldn't have picked today_

Stiles doesn’t hear Derek’s phone ring, but the werewolf checks his texts all the same. He frowns at the words, and then his face relaxes in understanding. He closes his eyes for an instant.

_Allison's birthday_ , Derek texts back.

_Her twenty-fifth_

Some days, it feels like they've all forgotten about her. Stiles can't though, and he’s seen the look on Scott's face whenever something reminds him of her. A place they went to together, a book he once saw her read, any time they open the bestiary. Thankfully, the moments are rare these days, because they always fill him with more guilt than he can deal with.

“You're a good friend, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head, pushes away the memories and focuses on Derek’s voice, low and deep, each of his rare words heavy with meaning. He flags the barman, orders another drink, and Derek pays without leaving him time to think.

“It’s my fault you spilled the first one,” he insists when Stiles tries to protest.

“Do I still smell nervous or whatever?”

“Yes. But that’s your usual smell.”

Stiles pushes himself from the bar and they make their way through the crowd to the table where their friends are waiting. Isaac has arrived while they were chatting, and Stiles’ lips curl into a smile despite himself. He hasn't seen Isaac in eight years, and the guy looks good. They've lost so many friends along the way; it’s nice to be reminded that some of them have simply moved away from all the madness before it was too late.

He sits between Derek and Alec, and after a moment of awkward salutations, the conversation restarts where it apparently stopped when they joined.

“So,” Isaac starts. “Can someone recap everything I've missed?”

“In the last eight years?” Stiles asks, dumbfounded, and that apparently means he’s volunteering. So he tells Isaac about the Benefactor. And the Dread Doctors. And the Beast of Gévaudan. And then he realizes that they have had too many enemies and that the discussion is depressing, so he changes the subject with what he thinks is panache, but Derek's eye roll and Scott's scoff tell him that no; his mind is still working light-years ahead of his mouth.

“And then they all forgot me, and Scott and Malia started dating. Which makes me being his best man kinda awkward, but I guess kinda awkward is the reception’s theme. I mean, Lydia will be there and we’re still living together, even though we broke up a year ago.”

Scott chuckles. “Kira just got back from her training, she’s at Malia’s bachelorette party right now. I’m very worried.”

“Kira?” Isaac asks.

“My ex. It’s complicated.”

“There’s nothing complicated,” Stiles adds. “Kira’s a thunder kitsune, so she had to leave to train with shapeshifters in the desert, knowing it would take years, so they broke up. Then she came back, what, a week ago?”

“Something like that.”

“And Malia asked her to be her bridesmaid.”

“It came from the heart,” Scott defends. “And Kira said yes.”

“Awkward,” Stiles stage whispers to the person closest to him, who is, as it happens, Derek, so his whole effect crashes down.

“Don’t forget to tell Isaac about your dad and Lydia’s mom,” Derek says, probably intending to embarrass Stiles, but Stiles has lots of experience with discomfort and he only laughs in return.

“Yes, well, I’m fine with that. Mostly. Melissa and Chris, on the other hand…”

“My ex will be there too,” Jackson interrupts, before Stiles can put his foot even deeper into his mouth. “Lydia, I mean. But I can act like an adult about it.”

Ethan pushes him with his shoulder. “Right. It was really mature when you suggested I stay home after I pointed out that Danny would be at the wedding.”

Danny chokes on his drink. “Leave me out of this. I’m never dating a supernatural again. Too much drama.”

Jackson ignores him and smiles at Ethan like Stiles has never seen him smile while he lived in Beacon Hills, his face entirely relaxed. He used to look so angry all the time, but London has changed him. For good. If leaving their hometown is the secret to happiness, why hasn't it worked on Stiles? Jackson puts his hand on the nape of Ethan's neck and pulls him for a kiss.

“Not in front of the puppies!” Stiles says, holding his laugh and putting his hand in front of Alec's eyes.

“You do realize I'm holding a beer I had to show my ID for?”

“But you'll always be a puppy to me.” Stiles pinches Alec's cheek to press his point.

“Hayden’s coming too,” Liam suddenly says, as if he couldn't withhold it anymore. “Maybe we’ll get another chance.” His voice is still hopeful years after she ran away. Stiles has rooted for them for a while, but even Scott, the eternal romantic, had given up. Liam and Hayden have the worst timing in the world.

A choir of _meh_ answers Liam.

“Well, none of my exes are coming, thankfully,” Derek deadpans, and everyone stops talking at once. “Because _that_ would be awkward.”

“Is that a sign of the apocalypse?” Stiles asks. “Derek Hale made a joke. Did everybody hear that? Come on, why wasn't my recorder turned on? I really need to start using it more often. Do I have to get prior consent in California? I’m never sure.”

“I make jokes. Not as often as you do, but that's only because I try to take things seriously.”

“I do take things seriously.” Stiles grimaces. “I have the serious-est job in the entire world. I am an FBI agent.”

Stiles is very proud of that fact. He’s worked hard and sacrificed everything for this job—hell, he gave up his relationship with Lydia for this job. But clearly, the public is not receptive. Scott badly hides a chuckle behind a cough, Danny rolls his eyes, and Mason sighs.

“We know,” Derek says. “You’ve told us a few times.”

Maybe it’s petty, maybe it’s spiteful, but Stiles can’t stop himself from poking the werewolf. “Well, this wedding may be free of all your crazy exes, but your crazy uncle is coming. And he's walking the bride down the aisle.”

“What?” Isaac asked. “Why?”

“Oh, did I forget that part? Peter is Malia's father.”

“Okay,” Isaac scoffs. “This wedding is going to be awkward. So Malia's your cousin, Derek?”

“Yes.”

Not that it changes anything to their inexistent relationship. Derek spent years in South America, and even after he came back to Beacon Hills, he's never acted as if they were related. Stiles’ heart breaks at the idea. He doesn't have much in terms of family, and he still likes Malia a lot, and he doesn't understand why she and Derek aren't close even though they're blood.

The conversation soon switches to what the others have been through, far from Beacon Hills, and honestly, Jackson and Ethan’s hunting hunters sounds almost peaceful to Stiles. Nobody has been mind-controlled, experimented on, or erased in London so far. Well, no one has been in Boston either, but Stiles knows how thin the line between peaceful and boring is.

Danny moved to the Silicon Valley with his parents a few years back and more recently, he’s been working in a marketing agency specialized in app development. He adores his job and his tiny apartment, and his drama-free life. He’s the one who’s visited Beacon Hills most often since he left, though, and Stiles has seen him maybe twice a year, even after he left for Washington.

Isaac, on the other hand, is back in the States for the first time since Chris Argent brought him to France. He’s been living in a tiny town named Sarlat, which he describes as a ‘place out of time’ and ‘the most beautiful town in the world,’ and once Stiles googles the pictures on his phone, he has to agree, at least on the first part. Chris’ cousins introduced Isaac to the local pack, and the werewolves have been taking care of him for the last eight years.

Isaac beams when he talks about his new family, his studying the history of the supernatural with the firm intention of getting a doctorate in the field, and his research partner and girlfriend Inès. He actually brought her for the wedding, and she’s currently with Lydia, Cora and Kira at Malia’s bachelorette party. Stiles really hopes she knows that werewolves are real but doesn’t dare ask.

Scott wants to dance, so most of the guys follow suit, but Stiles doesn’t. Instead, he goes to the bar for another drink, but the barman is nowhere to be seen. He leans his elbows on the bar, and that’s when he sees the ghost again.

She’s in the back of the club, wearing the same short white muslin dress, and the same sophisticated hairstyle intertwined with a silver thread. When he saw her earlier, her feet were bare, and he would bet that they still are. She’s staring at him, her pale face almost shining in the darkness. She’s perfectly immobile behind a sea of moving bodies, and nobody seems to notice her but Stiles.

She would look ethereal, eerie to anyone, but to him, she’s terrifying. He can’t look away, even though he knows she’s not real. His brain doesn’t share that bit of information with his heart, which pounds in his chest so loud that he can hear it. He’s entirely focused on her, trying to find some proof that he’s hallucinating, when something brushes his shoulder.

He jumps and yelps—even though he will deny that fact afterwards—and the barman asks him what he wants. If the man’s scowl is any indication, Stiles may have missed the first ten times he’s tried to catch his attention.

Stiles order a lemon drop and turns back, but the ghost is not there anymore. He looks around, looking for her, but he knows she’s gone. He would feel her presence otherwise, he thinks. He still counts his fingers a couple times to be sure he’s not dreaming, but even in his worst nightmares, a shooter wouldn’t cost the price of a burger and fries at the local diner. He still drinks it, bites the lemon, and leaves the glass on the bar, looking for his friends. He doesn’t dance, but he doesn’t want to stay by himself.

He finally finds Jackson trying to teach some move to Scott, who’s laughing so hard he’s barely standing. Ethan dances with Isaac, and the beta has certainly grown up and gained in confidence. Liam is trying his best to follow the rhythm of the music, but despite Corey and Mason’s encouragements, it still looks hopeless.

The best dancer of the group has always been Danny, and Stiles still remembers him at parties in high school. Stiles would always stay in the back and watch, and Danny usually was the focus of his attention, because he looks so different, so free once he’s on the dancefloor. It takes Stiles half a song to realize that his friend is dancing with Derek, of all people. And Derek isn’t half bad at it either.

Alec joins them with a tray of shooters. Stiles tries to refuse, because he’s reached a point where he’s not sure how many drinks he’s had, but Scott encourages him, and it’s his party after all, so he takes one. And then another to give himself the courage to dance with his best friend, no matter how ridiculous he’s going to look. At least the ghost’s gone.

He remembers jumping and shouting Scott’s name at the top of his lungs, and hugging Isaac while telling him how much he’d missed him, and then he’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of a car driving… somewhere. He shakes his head. Right, at some point, Scott decided Stiles was too drunk and asked Derek to drive him home.

“There are some energy bars in the glove compartment. You should eat one.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“Do what you want. But do not throw up in my car.”

A wave of nausea threatens to swallow Stiles whole at the words and he winces. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, we’ve already established that earlier,” Derek says dryly. “And you’ve proved it by drinking more than Scott did, and on an empty stomach.”

Stiles frowns. He’s rarely heard so many words in a string from Derek. Everybody has changed while he was away, even the sour wolf. He plays with the string from his hoodie, unsure what to say. He’s been hungover exactly once in his entire life, on his twenty-first birthday, and he’s tried his best not to renew the experience since then. He remembers Scott patting his back while he was throwing up for what seemed like hours, trying to comfort him even though he would never have an idea what it felt like. Story of their life, really.

Stiles opens the glove compartment and finds a selection of energy bars. He picks a chocolate-favored one and takes one tiny bite experimentally. At first, he feels worst, but after a few minutes, his stomach settles and he keeps eating. His brain feels like it’s booting up, and he raises his head to look through the window.

“That’s not the way home,” he suddenly realizes.

“It’s the scenic route. If I brought you home in that state, your father would kill me.”

“Don’t worry about that, he would simply give you the scolding of your life. Me, on the other hand, he would probably kill.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth turns into a quick smile, but he says nothing. Stiles hates the silence, always has, and as he searches for another bar in the glove compartment—who eats oats bars, really?—he finds himself asking a question he’d promised himself he would never say aloud, because there are no good answers.

“Ghosts aren’t real, are they?”

Derek turns slightly and looks at him, frowning. If he answers yes, then Stiles is haunted. If he answers no, then Stiles is losing his mind. Honestly, he’s not sure what he prefers.

“You saw a ghost.” Derek’s tone is flat, careful.

“Look at the road.” Stiles is not really afraid of crashing, he trusts Derek’s reflexes. He doesn’t trust his own face though, it is way too expressive. Derek will learn enough of his numb anguish through his sense of smell. “So they really do exist.”

“Not that I know of. My mother never spoke of them, and most of my knowledge of the supernatural comes from her.”

“They’re not in the Bestiary either, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“What _did_ you see?”

Stiles pushes his head back into the headrest, stares at the roof and sighs. “I was driving home, Lydia was sleeping in the rental car. We’d just passed the county line when I saw a pale-faced woman with dark hair standing on the side of the road. She wore a white dress and she looked at me. I saw her again at _Jungle_.”

“And you think it was a ghost.”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, a knot in his throat. “She had Alison’s face. I know it sounds crazy, but it was Allison, her hair, her jaw, her stupidly cute dimples, and God, I’m losing my mind. She’s dead, she’s fucking dead, I saw her die with my own eyes… Well, not my own eyes actually, the Nogitsune’s. Long story, doesn’t matter right now. Still, I was there at her funeral and I know that she’s not going to be on the side of the road eight fucking years later, and still…”

“Stiles.”

He stops at the mention of his name and turns to look at Derek. He realizes that his hands are shaking badly and he grabs his knees as tight as he can to stop them. It doesn’t work, but then again, it rarely does.

“Breathe,” Derek growls, as if Stiles was still afraid of werewolves after all this time.

“I _am_ breathing.” He still inhales and counts to five before exhaling again a couple times to be sure.

“Did anyone else see her?”

“I don’t think so.”

Derek stays silent for a while. He takes a left, and Stiles recognizes the road that leads home. They’ll be there in a few minutes, and as if he’d realized that too, Derek begins talking again.

“You’re exhausted and coming home brings back memories.” Stiles opens his mouth, but Derek raises his hand to keep him from talking. “We can’t be sure of what you saw, so here’s the plan: you’re going to sleep twelve hours, and then we’ll go to Deaton’s and ask him about ghosts.”

Stiles relaxes in his seat. That sounds like a good plan. One he probably would have had if his brain was working. But before he can thank Derek, his phone rings and he doesn’t need to look at caller ID, because the ringtone is _Find my way back_ , and that will always be his and Lydia’s song.

“My moon and stars, love of my life, how may I ever be of assistance to you?”

“You’re drunk,” she answers accusingly.

“I’m not. I was, but then I ate a chocolate bar and I’m all better.”

“How many drinks did you have?”

“I’m not sure. I lost count after…” He chuckles, because he’s pretty sure he lost count after seeing a ghost, but it sounds so stupid that he can’t tell her that. “The second one. Or the third?”

“Are you driving right now?”

“No, Derek’s taking me home.”

“Give him the phone.”

“I can’t, he’s driving. You’re not allowed to use your cellphone while you’re driving, I think. Or is it texting? I’m not sure.”

“Derek, I know you can hear me. Take the phone. Right. Now.”

There’s furor in her voice and Stiles doesn’t fight back when Derek steals his phone. The werewolf listens to Lydia intently for a minute or so. Then, he tells her he’s coming right now and hangs up, tossing the phone on Stiles’ lap.

“Malia’s missing,” Derek says, checking his mirrors. “I imagine there’s no point in offering to leave you home before I go.”

“None whacho… none whasto… none whatsoever. See? Not even drunk anymore.

Derek rolls his eyes before making a most illegal U-turn—and in front of an FBI agent, what nerve.

Malia’s missing. There will be an investigation and more likely than not, they’ll all find themselves in mortal danger. But he will find her, he will bring her home, and that mission he gives himself—or did Beacon Hills give it to him?—fills him with purpose and the most calm he’s felt in years.

Stiles smiles. He is most definitively home.


	2. Maybe there’s no case

Lydia is waiting for them in front of _Sinema_ , her arms crossed, her lips pursed. Behind her, Kira stands still, her face void of any emotion, and a tiny woman fidgets with her long blond hair. Inès, Stiles guesses.

“Finally,” Lydia says.

“What happened?” Derek asks immediately, leaving greetings and niceties for another time. Or more likely, knowing him, never.

“Malia needed a breather from the crowd, so she went out. Ten minutes later, I went to check on her and I couldn’t find her. Cora tried to follow her scent, but it’s like she disappeared out of thin air.”

Derek closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He frowns.

“Did you call the others?” Stiles asks Lydia.

“No. I didn’t want to worry Scott until we knew for sure something had happened. I mean, it’s Malia, she probably heard something and went to check it out without telling us, right? And yes, I’ve tried to call her, but she left her bag at the bar.”

Despite the alcohol that blurs his senses, Stiles notices that her hands are shaking and her face is paler than usual. Her eyes are wide and shine too much in the moonlight. He takes her hand and casts her a smile. She answers it, but her face doesn’t relax one bit.

Stiles knows that look, and he’s getting worried. Lydia has a feeling, a bad one, and she’s keeping it for herself at the moment, most likely because she has nothing more than that. He knows better; he’s lived with her for years, even though the closest person they’ve lost during that time was Mr. Grangers, their old neighbor.

“I’ll check in with Cora,” Derek says. “Stay with them, Kira, I’ll be back soon.”

Kira nods once and stands even straighter, her hands behind her back. She looks like the shadow of herself, and Stiles has every intention to tease her until she’s back to her former self once they’ve found Malia, but he’s got a more urgent problem at the moment.

“Bad feeling?” he whispers to Lydia, now that there are no wolves to eavesdrop. She answers by pursing her lips and looking at him with so much pain in her eyes that he regrets ever taking her to Beacon Hills.

“Come here,” he says, offering his arms, and she comes closer, until she can put her head on his shoulder. He closes his arms around her, offering what little comfort and protection he can, and rests his chin in her hair.

“I feel Death coming, Stiles,” she murmurs.

“You know what we say to Death.”

“Not today.” She chuckles, her breath warm against his shirt.

“We will find Malia. And if she’s been taken, I pity her captors. Not even because we will destroy them, mind you, but because she can be insufferable when she wants.”

Lydia chuckles, and then freezes, suddenly stiff in his embrace. Stiles steps back and looks at her face. Her mouth is half open and she stares at nothing in particular, which can mean only one thing.

“Are you having some sort of premonition right now?”

She doesn’t answer. Stiles notices absentmindedly that Derek and Cora are back, but he ignores them.

“Lydia, do you hear something?”

She snaps out of whatever she was lost in. “The annoying sound of your voice.”

“My voice is smooth and comforting. I’ve been told that I have a very soothing phone voice. I could record your voicemail message if you want.”

She pouts. “Let’s not do that.” She sighs. “I heard a man singing. He had a soft voice, almost like a child. It was… eerie, like it came through a dream.”

“What was he singing?” Cora asks, her voice hard.

“I’m not sure.” Lydia’s frowning, like she’s trying to bring back the sound, but it’s avoiding her. “It wasn’t English. It wasn’t any language I know, it sounded like… Stiles, what’s that movie you made me watch, with the blond woman saying that she’s no man?”

“ _Lord of the Rings_?” Stiles answers, not sure what it has to do with anything.

“Yes, that one. Remember the woman with the necklace I liked so much?” Stiles gifted her an Evenstar for their first Christmas living together and she wore it every single day for months. He could almost smile at the memory of seeing it around her neck, if the situation wasn’t so dire. “What language was she speaking?”

“Elvish, I guess?”

“Yes. It sounded like that. The song I mean.”

“Like the constructed language you’ve heard in a movie. Look, I know that _Lord of the Rings_ is breathtaking, and mind-shattering, and world-changing, but they’re still movies, they’re not real. Elves do not exist. As far as we know. Do elves exist?” he asks to no one in particular.

“I’m not saying it was elvish, just that it sounded more like elvish than any of the languages I speak.”

Which is seven, because Lydia is an endless pit of knowledge, even though languages aren’t her focus. Her words aren’t that helpful at the moment, though, so he asks Derek and Cora what they found.

“A whole lot of nothing,” Cora answers. “No scent anywhere.”

“And when she says no scent, she means that we can’t smell you at the moment either.”

“It’s like someone magically bleached the place.”

“Actually, it’s more like all our senses are numb.”

Cora nods. 

Four pieces to the puzzle: a missing Malia, an elvish song, magic bleach, and maybe or maybe not, Allison’s ghost. Nothing fits at the moment, they need to know more. Three supernaturals, three humans—Stiles defaults Inès to the human pool until he knows more—, they can have three teams to investigate.

“Cora, Lydia, go to Malia’s home and see if she’s there. Kira, Inès—hi, nice to meet you, I’m Stiles, sorry about the circumstances, welcome to Beacon Hills—, search around here for any trace she might have left. Derek, you’re with me. I guess, I’m not sure. I saved your life, I get to order you around now, right?”

The four women are looking expectantly at Derek until he nods, and then scatter. Stiles calls after them: “If you see, smell, or feel anything strange, call us and run away like hell. Preferably not in that order.”

They don’t turn back, but Stiles is sure they know the drill by now. They have a bit more common sense than characters in a horror movie.

Stiles skips to the car and waits in front of the passenger door for Derek to unlock it.

“Where are we going?” the werewolf asks.

“The preserve. I’ll explain on the way.”

The preserve is Malia’s secret. Stiles only knows about it because they used to date, and he’s certain that she wouldn’t want the pack to learn about it. Derek’s different, because he understands the need for privacy.

They climb in the car and Derek starts driving. Stiles waits for a couple miles before he beings his explanation.

“Malia used to get overwhelmed by… well, everything. People, places, books, sounds… When it was too much, she would disappear, telling everyone she was going home for a while, but I knew it was a lie. I never said a thing, because at my tiny scale, I wanted to run away at least twice a day after Eichen House.

“One day I had a panic attack, I don’t remember why. Something stupid, probably, they’re always about stupid things. Malia didn’t understand what was happening to me, and when I tried to explain, she took me to the preserve. To her coyote den. That was her safe space, and if she somehow got cold feet, I’m sure she’s there.”

Derek nods without a word. Stiles opens the glove compartment again and rummages for another energy bar. There’s no more chocolate, so hazelnut will have to do.

“You’re still drunk,” Derek suddenly says, and Stiles stops himself in the middle of a bite.

“A bit,” he answers, his mouth full.

“You’re still quite… efficient.”

“Adrenaline, I guess. I don’t know, when I have a problem to solve, everything becomes clearer. It’s as if I can’t really focus unless it’s a question of life and death. Literally.”

“That must help with your job.”

“Wanna know the truth about my job?” Maybe it’s because he’s drunk, maybe it’s because he’s never told anyone and he knows Derek can keep a secret, but the words roll down his tongue with ease. “It sucks. It’s the most boring job in the entire world. I spend day and night looking at bank statements, and CCTV footage, and lists of names, and after a week, they send me home for a couple days. I sometimes don’t even know if we’ve solved a case. I sometimes don’t even know what the case is. Maybe there’s no case, maybe I’m helping my boss prepare his tax returns without knowing.”

He finishes his energy bar and licks his fingers. Derek is focused on the road, his eyes barely moving once in a while to check his mirror.

“And the worst part is, I worked so hard to get this fucking job. I stepped on people’s toes; I fucked up my relationship with Lydia. I wanted it more than I’ve wanted anything in my life, and now that I have it, I hate it. I thought I could help with the supernatural aspect of cases, but I haven’t seen the slightest hint of anything not perfectly normal and boring.”

“Then quit.”

Stiles scoffs. “And what am I gonna do? Work with my dad?”

“There must be something you want to do.”

Stiles is stumped. He’s doing exactly what he wanted. He’s achieved his dream. It just so happens that his dream sucks, so he hasn’t tried to find another one. Ever since he started this job, he’s been hoping that it will get better, that if he works hard enough, he’ll be placed on more interesting assignments, but it hasn’t been the case. One day, his boss told him he was too efficient to promote. Yay.

“I have no idea. What do you want to do?”

Derek smiles and bites his lip. “For the longest time, I didn’t want anything. I wanted revenge for Laura, and when I got it, I became the alpha, so I thought it was what I wanted.”

“You sucked at being the alpha.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Derek grits his teeth. “But now, I want to follow Scott. I want to protect people, I want to teach hunters that we’re not monsters. I want to make a difference for all those kids like Scott, like Malia, like Lydia, who weren’t given a choice when they were soaked into my world.”

“That’s beautiful. I would totally want that, if I wasn’t so fucking useless. If you ever need someone who can read a detailed phone bill, call me.”

“You’re underestimating yourself.”

“Some days, I wish I had more than a spark.”

Stiles bites his lip. He must be drunker than he thought, because he’s promised himself that he would never utter those words. All his friends have suffered because of what they are. They’ve lost their innocence too young, they’ve had to give up on their dreams, they’ve lost people they loved. Stiles is lucky, he’s human. That’s what they all think, and he must not allow himself to wish he was one of them, and yet…

“Forget I said that. It doesn’t matter.”

Derek frowns but doesn’t answer. Stiles tries to busy himself to erase the silence in the car. He moves his hand to turn on the music, but Derek stops him without even looking. Finally, after a way too short moment, Stiles can’t bear it.

“I’m still slightly drunk, or I wouldn’t say that aloud, but some days, I wish I had magic for real and I could use it to solve cases and help people. I could be a real member of Scott’s pack then.” He chuckles. “Hell’s bells, some days, I wish I could put myself in the phonebook under magician, like Harry Dresden.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Who’s Harry Dresden?”

“He’s a character in a series of novels. They’re awesome, you should read them. I’ll lend you the first one when you take me home.”

He’s half expecting Derek to tell him he doesn’t need his stupid book, but instead, he nods and parks the car. The road’s over, and they’re on for a bit of a hike. Stiles takes the tiny flashlight that’s tied to his keys and takes the lead. The vegetation has grown since he’s last come, and they get lost, but Derek finds Malia’s scent and Stiles follows him. Their path crosses the rusted car, and Stiles bows his head quickly, as if asking Malia’s mom permission to cross to her den.

“I don’t think she’s come here today. The scent is at least a week old, it’s barely there under the smell of other coyotes. Stay there, I’ll take a look around.”

“Right, stay there,” Stiles says to Derek’s back, as the werewolf is already leaving. “If we were in a horror movie, I would totally get killed half a minute after we got separated, you know that? You’re supposed to be my bodyguard right now, I’m still mildly drunk and I don’t have my gun, because I’m on a vacation. Wait, maybe it’s better I don’t have a gun. I wouldn’t bet on my aim right now.”

But Derek doesn’t care. Stiles enters the den itself, but there’s no sign that Malia’s been there recently. There’s a nest in the corner of the room, and he recognizes one of his old shirts. It’s mixed with a couple of Scott’s T-shirts, a dress that he remembers Lydia wearing, and a hoodie that must have belonged to Liam at some point. He smiles fondly at the juxtaposition. They are Malia’s family, all of them, and she seeks their comfort, even when she feels she can’t go to them.

There’s a voice outside and he listens carefully without making a move. It’s a man singing, his voice soft, and he can’t understand the words. He has to admit that it sounds kind of elvish, in a way. Maybe it's Finnish, he doesn’t know the language enough to recognize it for sure, but why would a Finn be singing in the middle of the preserve?

“Derek, get back here,” he whispers, knowing that the werewolf can hear him. But a verse passes and Derek’s not back. He murmurs his name a second time, as loud as he can without raising his voice, but still nothing. He remembers what he told the others, run away and call, but he’s stuck in Malia’s den and his phone has no bars, so there’s only one thing he can do: confront the singing man. After all, he is _singing_ , he can’t be that dangerous, can he?

He exits the den, but there’s no one in the clearing. In the moonlight, the trees look like the bars from a cage and he can’t remember the way back to the car. There’s a mist that wasn’t there before, and it seems to numb his senses. Lydia said that the song sounded like it came out of a dream, and it is the best description he could give.

So he counts his fingers, once, twice, thrice. There are ten of them, but it barely reassures him. He takes his phone, opens a random text and reads it. It’s from Lydia and asks him to pick some softener on his way back from work. He didn’t, because he left work at three in the morning and the shop was closed. But still, written words make sense, so he’s not dreaming.

“Hello?” he calls out, but no one answers him, and the voice keeps singing its stupid song. He steps into the clearing, his feet deep into the mist.

“Mieczysław Stilinski,” a voice calls. Stiles jumps, his heart louder than his poor Jeep’s grating in its last days. He turns and there stands a white-faced man with platinum hair reaching down his waist. He’s slender like a reed and almost as emotional. His golden eyes fixed on Stiles, he’s completely still. Stiles isn’t even sure the man is breathing.

“Dude, don’t freak people out like that. Who the hell are you? How do you know my name?”

“My identity is not important. I was sent by Queen Morgan. She wishes to meet you at your earliest convenience.”

“Well, I’m quite busy at the moment, you know. Okay, I’m on a vacation, but I have a wedding to prepare for—I’m the best man, so I have some pranks to set up, it’s very important—and also, my friend is missing. Maybe you’ve seen her, she’s tall and athletic, with brown hair in a bob. I think, I haven't seen her in a while.”

“Her Majesty wishes to offer her assistance in your search.”

“Wait a minute. Queen Morgan, what is she queen of?”

“She is the Seelie Queen.”

“So you’re a fairy? Fairies exist?”

“We prefer the term ‘Fay.’ The word ‘Fairy’ has been twisted by humans.” The fist hint of emotion was disgust at the word ‘humans.’ Great. “They think us tiny winged pests. This is very far from the truth.”

“You don’t say. And so your Morgan, she's Morgan Le Fay, like in the Arthurian legends?”

The man remains quiet, not even acknowledging the question. Stiles sighs.

“Whoever she is, she knows where Malia is?”

“She has her suspicions.”

“Great, but can’t she come here? You do realize that you’re technically kidnapping me?”

“Her Lady is very busy and doesn’t make a habit of offering assistance to humans.”

Stiles’ mind tells him to run away like hell and to call Derek or anyone who will answer their phone, but a queen is now his first real clue as to where Malia could be, and he doesn’t see himself refuse her offer.

“Fine. Take me to your leader.”

Without a word, the man leads him out of the clearing and through the trees. It takes him a few minutes to realize, but this is not the preserve anymore. The trees are beeches, he thinks, and they look nothing like the forest around Beacon Hills. The mist seems to congeal the furthest they go, and then suddenly they are in another clearing, lit up almost like day by a ray of moonlight.

In the middle, trees have been grown into a throne, where a regal woman sits tall, her chin high. She shares the man’s pale skin and golden eyes, and so do the half dozen guards around her. But when she sees Stiles, she blinks slowly and one corner of her mouth lifts it in an expression too cold to be called a smile.

“Mr. Stilinski. I am glad to see you here.” She dismisses her men with one flick of her wrist and stands up. “Walk with me,” she says, and Stiles has no choice but to obey. She extends a hand expectantly and he offers her his elbow without thinking.

She’s beautiful, he thinks, but she’s cold to the touch and she creeps him out. He’s not sure what he expected of the Seelie Queen, but certainly not someone taller than him, wearing an armor made of blue-colored leather and metal much too fine for that usage. The only sign of her position is a tiara of thin silver, interlaced with her blond hair as if it was grown rather than crafted.

“Where are we? This is not the preserve.”

“We are still in what humans call California, but you have moved sideways.”

“Parallel dimensions? That’s what you’re selling me?”

“If those are the words you wish to use, then yes. You were brought to me, as I don’t often visit the human realm. I have learned of your alpha’s mate disappearance and can offer some help.”

“You know where she is?”

“I know she has been taken.” She closes her eyes and tilts her head in the biggest display of emotion Stiles has seen so far from a Fay. “By one of mine.”

“You didn’t kidnap her, did you? You didn’t make me come here to threaten her life or whatever? Because my friends will find me and find her and make hell rain over whoever hurt us.”

Another cold half-smile. “You have fire in you, young human.” The smile disappears. “There are factions amongst my kind. I am not an absolute ruler, and they are entitled to some level of autonomy. Sometimes, a faction will rise up against my power, and I have to clash them down.”

Her entire face hardens and Stiles doesn’t want to become her enemy if he can avoid it.

“Okay, what does it have to do with Malia?”

“I fear one faction may have taken her. As it happens, our interests converge. Your alpha wants his mate back, and I want to tame a revolution before it starts. I therefore would like to extend my hand and offer you my assistance in locating your… Malia.”

Stiles tries to remember everything, anything really he’s ever read about fairies, or Fay, or whatever, but not much comes back to him. Fairy tales, and _Dresden Files_ , and Shakespeare, and stupid movies for children, but there’s nothing in the Argent bestiary, which he now knows from cover to cover. His mind feels numb, as if he can’t really think, can’t really remember, while he stands in the mist.

But something, some old memory, finally comes through the veil. There’s something with fairies and deals, debts, promises, or all of the above.

“I don’t want to be indebted to you. What if I accept your help, and in ten years you come to steal my first-born child in return?”

“I have no use for your first born. If it will reassure you as to my intentions, I will ask you for a favor in return so that we may be even when this is all behind us.”

“Alright, but what’s the favor?”

The Queen remains silent for a minute, her face emotionless. Then, she licks her lips and gives her answer.

“My daughter needs to learn about the human world. I would be grateful, if in return for my help in locating your friend, you would escort her to your alpha’s wedding.”

“That’s it? I just have to take her to Scott’s wedding?”

The Queen nods.

“How do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know it’s not all a trick?”

“The Fay cannot lie. We avoid humans, for they always try to take advantage of this weakness. Your pack has an emissary. Contact him and have him confirm that fact, if it will grant you peace of mind.”

Stiles takes his phone, and surprisingly, it has bars. The network around Beacon Hills sucks so bad that he’s got better reception in a parallel world than in the preserve. He calls Deaton, and even though it’s the middle of the night, the man answers after the first ring, fresh as a daisy.

“Can Fay lie?” Stiles asks, straight to the point, and he can almost hear the vet frown in response.

“This is a theoretical question, right?”

“Sure.”

“No, they can’t lie. But that doesn’t mean you should trust them.”

Before Stiles can ask him to explain, the call drops. So network is as unreliable here as at home. He thinks about the deal Morgan is offering him, and he looks for any loophole.

“Is your daughter some kind of monster? Is she going to kill me or anyone at the wedding?”

“She is not, and she will not.”

“Are you hiding anything bad?”

“Evidently. I am the Seelie Queen, I will not grant access to Fay secrets to a mere human.”

Stiles doesn’t like her tone, as if he was a kid, but he lets it pass. If she is the same Morgan le Fay that battled against King Arthur, he _is_ a child next to her.

“Why are you talking to me and not to Scott?”

She walks a few steps, pulling Stiles even though her hand barely touches his arm. “Diplomacy is a difficult beast to tame. My realm extends over territories belonging to numerous packs. If I were to directly help an alpha, they would come to me, and it would be hard to refuse them without breaking what little peace we have. I have no intention to interfere with your world more than I have to.”

“So the fact that I’m a mere human, as you say, is the reason you came to me.”

She says nothing, and Stiles is pretty sure there’s a lesson to learn here, but he’s not sure which one. He asks a few more questions, but nothing she answers sounds suspicious. She really seems to hate the Fay who took Malia.

“Okay, I agree to your deal. You help me find Malia, and I’ll escort your daughter to Scott’s wedding.”

“Very good.” She stops in her tracks. “There is one more condition: you will not utter one word to your friends about the Seelie and their Queen, and you will not mention our agreement.”

It was understandable. How could have Fay stay so secret without these kinds of end-user license agreements?

“Deal,” he says, offering his hand. She looks at it, frowning, and doesn’t shake it. Stiles shrugs. Different cultures.

“The Fay who took your alpha’s mate is named Kallan and is currently residing in your world. You will be able to use his name, if not his kind. I shall send one of my men with his exact location at dusk. It is not in Kallan’s interest to hurt your friend in the meantime.” That’s when the other shoe drops, and Stiles wonders how he could have been so stupid.

“You can’t come into my world without breaking peace treaties, can you? You’re sending me to do your dirty work.”

She smiles, wider than before but still as friendly as a hungry tiger. She doesn’t say a word though. Stiles weighs up the pros and cons, and figures it isn’t so bad. He now knows Malia has been taken and who took her, and he will soon get an exact location. What if it helps her too?

“Okay, doesn’t matter. So what do I do now?”

“You are going home.”

Morgan touches his brow and he closes his eyes against his will. When he opens them again, he’s lying on his back, the hard ground of the forest hurting as if he’s spent hours there. The sky isn’t as dark as it was when they arrived, but the sun hasn’t risen yet. His cheek is wet and when he sits up, he finds himself face to face with a black wolf. Derek. The animal steps back, but wags his tail, his ears pointed up.

“I’m back,” Stiles says, his voice raw. He looks at his hands, counts his fingers, and sighs in relief. “I’m back,” he whispers again, this time for himself. “Come on, Lassie, I found something.”

Stiles stands up and walks towards the car, the wolf on his heel.


	3. I don’t need a bodyguard

“If you don’t turn back right this moment, I’m taking the wheel,” Stiles says to the wolf. It’s a sign of how strange his life has become that threatening an animal with stealing his car doesn’t even faze him. “It’s no Camaro, but I’m sure you still like your car, somehow. By the way, where did the Camaro go? The one you had when I was still in school? I liked the Camaro, it was all muscle and bared teeth and slightly subdued aggression.”

“I sold it. It wasn’t reliable. I spent more time with the mechanic than at the wheel. Put my clothes in the car.”

Stiles opens the door and sets the pile on the passenger seat, before turning his back.

“Note to self: threatening Derek’s car works.”

“Please tell me you’re not recording this.”

“I’m not, I’m just trying not to forget.” Derek says nothing in return, and Stiles just has to fill the silence with mindless rambling. “It was so strange the first time I saw you driving the SUV. I thought it didn’t suit you, but now it does, strangely. You’ve changed.”

“I’ve gone from muscle and bared teeth and slightly subdued aggression to reliable. Fantastic.” Derek’s tone stays flat.

Stiles chuckles. “Something like that. Take it as a compliment. You used to terrify me. By the way, can you tell me why my cheek was wet when I woke up? Was there an extremely localized shower?” He’s not sure why, but Stiles likes teasing Derek.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of shuffling clothes as Derek gets dressed, hidden behind the car. Stiles fidgets with his keys in the meantime, unsure of how to explain everything that happened with the Seelie Queen when he’s not allowed to talk about her existence. She didn’t think of that, did she?

“Where the hell were you? You were supposed to stay put.”

Derek has suddenly appeared at Stiles’ side. He’s now fully dressed, his eyebrows tensed in a frown, his hazel eyes focused on Stiles’ face. It’s impossible to lie to a stare like that, but as Stiles searches for his words, he realizes that he can’t tell him anything. And being stopped from talking by some sort of mental barrier hurts more than it should.

“I…” he tries, but nothing comes out his mouth afterwards.

Derek’s frown deepens, and some of the anger on his face turns into… worry? Was he worried about Stiles?

“I can’t tell you. I swear to you I’m trying, but I physically can’t tell you. The words won’t cross my lips.”

“Are you in danger right now?”

“I don’t have any reason to think so.”

“Were you in any danger earlier?” Derek’s voice is softer, as if he fears the answer.

“No,” Stiles lies, because anything could have happened while Derek was away, but he doesn’t need to know that. Stiles’ heart must have skipped a beat or something, because he can see some slightly subdued aggression on Derek’s face right now.

“Alright. This time, I’m taking you home.”

Derek climbs into the car and Stiles follows suit without protesting. While they drive toward his childhood home, Stiles tries to think carefully about his words. It would be difficult for him to do on a normal day, but there’s still alcohol running through his veins, and his mind still feels numb from his visit sideways.

“I heard the singing man,” he says, and his eyes open wide, surprised by the sound of his own voice. He’s done it, he’s found something he can say.

“And instead of staying hidden, you went after him.”

“Yes. He took me…” Stiles bites his lip. The words won’t come.

“Some place you can’t talk about. It’s okay.”

“Alright. There, I had a chat with… This is getting really old really fast.”

“Someone you can’t talk about. Just… do your best.”

“I am. That someone told me that Malia’s been taken by one of their vassals slash enemies, a guy named Kallan.” He sighs deeply. “Please don’t make me tell this story again, it’s like… you know when you’re in a dream, and you’re looking for something and you just can’t find it? Yeah, well it’s almost as annoying and barely more efficient.”

“Do we need to call Deaton?” Derek asks.

Stiles realizes that it’s what they need to do, because the Seelie Queen had him call the vet and mention the Fay. He relaxes in his seat and nods.

“Then do it already,” Derek growls.

Stiles obeys, and after a quick chat, he agrees to meet Deaton at the clinic. Then, he rests his head against the cold window and half closes his eyes. He’s exhausted and wants nothing more than the comfort of his bed right now. The car might even do.

“I looked for you for hours,” Derek says. Stiles doesn’t move a muscle, afraid that it would break this moment. Derek rarely starts a conversation. “I let the wolf take over because my senses were numb, just like at _Sinema_. I still couldn’t find you. And then, suddenly, I caught your scent. You were at the place I’d left you, unconscious.”

There’s a silence, and Stiles thinks that the moment is gone, but Derek continues. “It’s hard for me to turn back when the wolf’s emotions are heightened.”

And Derek leaves Stiles to put the pieces back together. It takes him a minute, but he finally understands that Derek licked his face to try to wake him up, because the wolf was scared for him. “Oh,” he says, and the rest of the drive is spent in silence. Stiles may or may not take a micro-nap during that time.

When they arrive at the clinic, Deaton is making the rounds on his patients, and Stiles can’t help but wonder whether the vet is a night owl or a very early bird.

“How may I help you?”

Stiles tries to talk, but he stumbles on his words, and Derek takes the lead, summarizing what took agonizingly long minutes to Stiles in about two sentences.

Instead of answering anything pertinent, Deaton kneels to pet a dog that doesn’t even raise its head. “Derek, do you mind?” he asks, and the werewolf kneels by his side and sets his hand on the dog’s paw. He winces as he takes the animal’s pain, the veins in his forearm turning black. The dog stretches his head and licks Derek’s hand. The werewolf doesn’t move.

Stiles rests his back against the wall and looks. Taking pain has always been the most fascinating ability of werewolves to him. Forget the claws and fangs, the healing, the colored eyes, and the howls; the pain thing is the most incredible part of what they do. Lydia and Stiles have tried to figure out scientifically what the werewolves actually do, but they didn’t have enough lab equipment, let alone willing guinea pigs, to ever find out whether it’s chemical or magical.

The dog slowly wags its tail, and the men stand up. Deaton thanks Derek, before leading them to his examination room. He makes Stiles sit on the table he normally uses for cats and dogs and shines a lamp to his eyes to check his pupil reaction.

“You can’t talk about anything that happened tonight?” the vet asks.

“Nope.” Stiles grimaces at Deaton, trying to make him talk about the Fay without being prompted, but instead, the vet opens the wooden box that contains his collection of magical ingredients. He picks a first bottle, takes out a few leaves, and sets them on the back of Stiles’ hand. Nothing happens, and he puts them back in the bottle.

“But you know that a man named Kallan took Malia.”

“He’s not technically a man.” Stiles is starting to get a hand on this thing. The spell the Seelie Queen put on him seems to be simpler than he thought. He can’t talk about the Fay, but he can hint until his friends understand by themselves.

“You mean he’s not human,” Derek says, and for the first time since they’ve left _Jungle_ , a smile forms on Stiles’ lips. He doesn’t even try to answer this time, because the words are not needed. Instead, he asks Deaton for his phone. He hoped that the man would realize that his incapacity to talk was linked to their earlier phone call, but he hasn’t breached the subject yet.

Once Deaton’s phone is in his hands, Stiles browses the call history and find his name. He shows the screen to the vet, whose frown increases,

“I remember you calling me, and I remember answering. But I have no memory of what that conversation was about. Did you call from wherever you were?”

Stiles nods. Derek turns to Deaton. “What’s wrong with the two of you?”

The vet takes a few moments before turning to a whiteboard at the back of the room. He takes a marker and gives it to Stiles. “I would like to try something. You cannot talk about wherever you went earlier, but you may be able to draw it.”

“So your idea is a game of _Pictionary_? I’m all for creative solutions, but I couldn’t draw a stick figure to save my life. I mean, I doodle all the time, but it’s not exactly figurative art.”

“Stiles, shut up and draw something.” Derek looks like he’s losing patience, so Stiles stands up and opens the marker. He thinks of what he may be able to draw considering his very low art skills, and he sets aside the idea of representing a forest.

Instead, he draws a stick figure wearing a dress and a crown, and adds wings. The Seelie Queen didn’t have any, but fairies are usually represented with them, so he hopes they will make the leap.

“A woman with teeth on her head and gigantic arms. Is that a wendigo?” Derek asks.

Stiles sighs deeply. This is not going to be easy. “You’re not even trying.”

He erases the drawing and tries again from scratch. Change of plans, the forest will have to do. He draws another stick figure, this time holding a baseball bat. Then in the background on the left side of the board, he adds trees. They’re pretty basic, but he doesn’t see how anyone would confuse them for anything else.

“That’s you in the preserve,” Derek guesses. “Thanks, but we already knew that part.” His patience may have improved along the years, but it’s still very short.

Stiles draws a line in the middle of the board, one half with the forest, one half empty, and adds an arrow that goes from the stick figure to the empty part. He wants to make them guess the word ‘sideways,’ but everything Derek suggests is related to the nothingness of the right side. He erases the board once more, with more energy than required.

He’s starting to feel that it’s hopeless. He’s always knows that his words are his only defense and losing them is terrifying. He feels even more useless than usual. He should have taken art back in school.

He draws only the crown this time, and when Derek guesses ‘teeth’ again, he sends him his darkest look and adds jewels. Finally, Derek gets it.

“Did you meet with a king?” he asks, and Stiles shakes his head with a bright smile.

“Did you meet with a queen?”

“I can’t say,” Stiles answers, his smile widening.

“A singing man who sounded elvish took you to his queen, who forbid you to talk about her, but not to draw her.” Derek frowns, deep in reflection.

“Technicalities,” Deaton suddenly says. It’s his first word since Stiles started drawing, “Did you meet the Seelie Queen, Stiles?”

Stiles wants nothing more than to shout ‘yes,’ but the word is stuck in his throat. He tries to nod, but even that seems forbidden to him. So instead, he turns to the board and draws a thumbs up. Well, he tries, but Deaton seems to understand.

“Has your mother ever told you about the Fay, Derek?”

“Stories, mostly. I didn’t think they were real.”

“They are. Their world is sideways to ours… Oh, _sideways_ , that’s the word you wanted us to guess.”

Stiles circles the thumbs up as an answer.

“The Fay, particularly the Seelie, don’t have much interaction with our world. When they do, they thrive on technicalities. They can’t lie, but they never tell the entire truth. They twist promises and contort deals.”

“Is Kallan a Fay too?” Derek asks, and Stiles doesn’t say a word, but he knows that the werewolf understands. “Do you know where he is?”

“I will know at dusk.”

“Why would a Fay take Malia?” Derek asks Deaton.

“They are a vengeful people. If they meddle in werewolves’ affairs, it must be in retaliation. Has the pack ever had to deal with the Seelie before?”

“Not that I know of.”

Deaton opens a cabinet and takes out a couple books. “Since you will get information tonight, I would recommend reading on the Seelie while waiting. Were Malia in danger, I would expect Stiles to be more agitated.” He gives the books to Stiles. “In the meantime, I will try to locate her, but the mere presence of a Fay disrupts magic and numbs senses.”

“Like being in a dream,” Derek says, and Stiles would agree if this wasn’t acknowledging the existence of fairies.

They say goodbye to Deaton and Derek drives Stiles home. The sun is rising when they arrive, and the Sheriff is leaving the house, a thermos in his hand.

“Stiles. Derek.” He nods at them. “Is he drunk?”

At the same time as Derek says ‘no,’ Stiles says ‘yes.’ Wonderful, Derek tries to cover for him, and he admits everything.

“He was drunk, but we went for a ride and I made him eat. He’s better now.”

“You don’t have to talk about me as if I wasn’t there. I’m not _that_ drunk. I just need a power nap.”

“I’ll put him to bed,” Derek says to the Sheriff.

“Please do. I still remember the day after his twenty-first. It wasn’t pretty.”

Stiles tries to protest that he’s not a kid, but the simple mention of his bed makes him yawn instead. He lets himself being led by Derek to his room and falls headfirst onto the mattress. He closes his eyes, savoring the intermediate state between being awake and asleep, when he suddenly jolts upright.

“We haven’t told Scott!”

Derek is still lurking around the door. “I was planning on calling him as soon as you fell asleep.”

“Ask him to come over. We should tell him face to face.”

“You should _sleep_. I will tell him.”

“Face to face?”

“Face to face.”

Stiles lies back down and waits for sleep to come. He can hear Derek in the living room on his phone as he promised, but that doesn’t soothe him. On the opposite, he’s suddenly filled with nervous energy. Derek won’t find the right words to tell Scott because he’s always so blunt. More than that, Stiles is not sure there are any right words.

And he may have left Beacon Hills, but Scott is still is best friend, and he will need him when he hears the news.

So Stiles stands up, even though his body has gotten used to the idea of sleep and proves itself reluctant. Stumbling into the living room, he avoids Derek’s dark stare on his way to the couch. He sits on the armrest, making himself as uncomfortable as possible so he won’t fall asleep, and he waits. The books Deaton has lent them are lying on the coffee table and he picks one, opening it at random.

_The Fay form two courts: the Seelie and the Unseelie. The Seelie, also called the Summer Court, are known to play pranks on unsuspecting humans. They are light-hearted, but sometimes struggle to understand the hurt they put mortals through._

“Hey, Derek.” Stiles wants to tell him that it may all be a bad taste joke, but the words won’t leave his mouth. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. He tries to think of a technicality, anything that would allow him to explain the three sentences he’s read, but he’s too tired, and his eyes prickle too much under his closed eyelids.

He feels Derek move to his side and he opens his eyes again. Derek’s focused on the book and Stiles is thankful that he doesn’t see the stupid tears that he’s struggling to hold back.

“You think it’s a joke?”

Stiles doesn’t even try to answer.

“It could make sense. We haven’t had any dealings with the Fay before, so I don’t know what they would take revenge for.”

Stiles turns the page without a word, and they read more about the history of the Seelie Court. Nothing helpful, but Stiles is at least glad Derek is reading with him. Not being allowed to talk about what he’s found makes him the worst researcher in the entire world.

They only close the book when Scott arrives, and after Stiles trips on the second word after ‘hi,’ Derek takes the lead of the conversation. He makes Scott sit and tells him that Malia is missing and that she’s been taken by a Fay. Scott thinks they’re making fun of him, and then one look at Stiles’ face changes his mind.

“Where is she?” he asks, a low growl behind his voice.

“We don’t know. We will have more information at dusk.”

“The sun just rose! We can’t just sit and wait.”

Scott follows his own suggestion and exits the house, leaving the door open behind him. A second later, Stiles hears him howl, so loud that his bones are shaking. He puts his hands over his ears and wonders how Derek can bear it without as much as flinching. Then, after what seems like hours, there’s silence.

While they wait for Scott to come back, Stiles opens the book again just to busy his hands. Reading it seems pointless and frustrating. At the edge of his field of vision, Derek is typing on his phone. It’s still strange to see Derek with a phone, he didn’t even own one for so long.

Scott finally comes back in. “She’s not answering,” he says, his head down. He looks at his hands as if he’s searching for a way to make them useful. “Look, I can’t stay idle here, I have to try something, anything.”

“I’ll come with you,” Stiles offers.

“No, you’re going to sleep,” Derek dictates, before turning to Scott. “Lydia and Inès went home to rest for a bit, but Cora and Kira are still looking around _Sinema_. You should go with them, maybe you’ll find something we missed.”

Scott barely bids them goodbye before leaving on his bike.

“I could have gone with him. I’m his best friend. He may need me”

“He does need you, to get Kallan’s location tonight. You won’t be able to do it half asleep.”

Stiles sees Derek’s point, but he’s certain he won’t be able to fall asleep. He puts his hands deep into his pockets and shrugs. He’s gone much longer without sleep in the past. Of course, that was back when he was possessed by an evil fox, and he had the help of a nurse, who would probably scold him if he suggested staying awake one more minute.

“Alright,” he finally concedes. “But you have to read those books and make me a summary when I wake up.” He walks in the direction of his room but turns back before leaving the room. “Come and get me if there’s anything new.”

Derek nods, his face serious, and Stiles goes to bed. He changes into his PJs, trying to act as close to his ritual as he can, but the curtains can’t keep the light out, and the bedsheet smell is all wrong because his dad has switched detergent while he was away, and he can hear the noise from the street.

He closes his eyes and puts his pillow over his head in a vain attempt to keep the world away. And then, he realizes that he can hear Derek turn a page, slowly, carefully, and he smiles. Even if he falls asleep, the research is still going on. He’s useless, but he’s not impeding the pack.

A moment later, he opens his eyes again and his head hurts like hell. His mouth is dry and he’s vaguely nauseated. One look at his alarm clock tells him that the moment has lasted for eight hours and he jumps to his feet. He regrets it half a second later, as his stomach burns. For the first time, he really wonders how much he’s had to drink.

He stumbles into the kitchen, where Chris Argent is cooking breakfast. The whole image is incongruous: the father of his dead friend, who happens to be an ex-hunter and ex-weapons dealer, is holding a spatula with the same ease he would a gun. He’s made himself at home and it almost looks like he spends all his time in Stiles’ kitchen.

“Hello Stiles.” He flips a golden pancake. “Derek had to leave, so your dad called me.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” Stiles says, his voice raw and his throat itchy. He notices a glass of water on the table, next to two pills he recognizes as Advil, and he takes them without asking.

“No, you need a babysitter.”

Stiles chokes on his water. “Come on, I get drunk once at twenty-five, and my dad recruits you of all people as a babysitter? I’m not eight anymore,” he says. “And I didn’t even need a babysitter when I was eight.”

“The last time you were left by yourself for five minutes, you followed a stranger to another world and quite possibly made a deal with a trickster. You need a babysitter. Now, eat.”

He sets a couple pancakes in a plate in front of Stiles, adding a jar of jam next to it. Stiles tries to tell him he’s not in a state where he can eat, but you can’t say no to Chris Argent, so he takes his fork and knife and digs in. Chris is a really good cook, and Stiles soon doesn’t even have to force himself.

“So, what’s the news?” he asks, his mouth full.

“Nothing yet, unfortunately.”

“Where are the others?”

“Scott is with Deaton, they’re trying a locating spell. Jackson, Ethan, Isaac and Inès are calling their contacts in Europe. Mason, Corey, Liam and Alec are on research duty. Kira and Cora are helping Lydia getting a premonition.”

Stiles’ heart goes to Lydia. The one thing she hates more than getting a premonition is trying to force one, and he’s pretty sure that Kira’s brand-new stiffness isn’t helping much.

“What about Derek?”

“He’s with your father, they’re looking into a couple disappearances that may be linked to Malia.”

“You think…” Stiles begins, but he can’t finish his sentence. He’d almost forgotten about that. He clenches his fists, and he feels almost as taut as Allison’s bow, except he knows that this arrow will never hit its target.

“Yes, we think the Fay may have taken other people before Malia. You apparently told Derek that the Seelie Court was responsible, and taking random people isn’t their usual modus operandi, but we’re still looking into it.”

Stiles wants to ask him what he knows about the Fay, but he can’t, so he stays silent. The words are burning his lips and it’s almost physically painful to contain them. He eats his pancakes to swallow them back, while Chris does the dishes. Somehow, he thinks Derek would have understood, but Chris barely knows him. They have nothing in common. Apart maybe…

“Do you still see Allison?” he blurts out too fast to hold the words back. He hopes for an instant that the running water has covered his words, but when he looks at Chris, the man has stopped moving, one hand holding the pan, the other the sponge. “I mean… I don’t know what I mean. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said a thing.”

Chris puts the pan into the sink and closes the water. He dries his hands on a towel and slowly turns to face Stiles. He suddenly looks ten years older.

“I know exactly what you mean. I used to see her everywhere; I thought I saw her hair in a crowd, I thought I heard her grabbing cookies in the kitchen, and every time I saw Lydia, I thought I was going crazy because she used her perfume.”

A few days after Allison’s death, Lydia found a bottle of her friend’s perfume in her handbag. She must have held onto it while Allison ran after a monster or something. So Lydia started using it, and it made Scott crazy, because he always thought it was Allison, before remembering that it would never be Allison again.

It made Stiles avoid Lydia for a while, because she symbolized the pain he’d caused while possessed by the Nogitsune. He loved Lydia back then—he still does and he always will, no matter what happens between them—and hearing her scream Allison’s name broke his heart in a million pieces. It was even more painful than seeing himself die.

When Lydia finished the perfume, she was inconsolable for days, because no matter how many shops she visited, she couldn’t find another bottle. They’d stopped the entire line and replaced it by a new one, and she hated it. Scott, on the other hand, was relieved. He couldn’t bear the smell anymore. He never said a thing, of course, the self-sacrificing martyr, but Stiles knows him well enough to notice how his jaw finally unclenched in Lydia’s presence.

“But it’s gotten better,” Chris continues. “I will never forget her, just like I will never forget Victoria and you will never forget your mom. I’m simply not expecting to see her every time I get home.”

Stiles looks down at his plate, playing with his fork into a splash of jam. He should say something, anything, but all that comes to his mind will either hurt him or hurt Chris, and it will be for nothing. The man has lost his entire family in a few years’ time. His sister, his wife, his father, his daughter. Stiles doesn’t think he would be able to stand again if he was left all alone.

But Chris hasn’t seen Allison’s ghost, that much is obvious.

“Stiles, look at me.”

He obeys, and when he does, there’s a softness to Chris’ usually cold blue eyes that he’s rarely seen before.

“Yesterday would have been her birthday. It’s more painful for me too on some dates. She was your friend, you’re allowed to miss her.”

“I’m not,” Stiles answers, and he wants to pretend that the pain in his throat is caused by his hungover, but he can’t believe his own lie. “She’s dead because of me.”

Chris reaches across the table and wrests the knife from Stiles’ hand. Stiles realizes that his knuckles are white and that his hold on his cutlery is painful, but he likes it, because it takes a little part of his mind away from the guilt.

“You were possessed. You’re not responsible for anything the Nogitsune did. Not one person thinks you’re responsible. I know how hard it is to set the guilt aside, but you should be easier on yourself. You fought against the fox with all your might, and it would have killed everyone in town if it wasn’t for you.”

But if Stiles hadn’t been so weak, if he wasn’t so fucking useless, he could have saved them all. He tried to tell his dad all that, once, but it had made things worst instead of better, because instead of easing the guilt, he had shared it with his dad. So today, he won’t say it. He will swallow the tears before they go down, he will thank Chris for the words that haven’t reached him, and then he will shut his mouth.

Maybe the Seelie Queen had the right idea after all. Maybe he should just stop talking altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, subs, and bookmarks!


	4. We make a good team

After his late breakfast, Stiles climbs into Chris’ car in direction of the Sheriff station. They’re not talking, and Chris probably thinks that it’s because they’ve said everything they had to. The truth is, Stiles is exhausted of talking. Between what he wants to say but can’t, and what he shouldn’t say but blurts out, he’s starting to think that he’s lost his only weapon: words.

Derek and Stiles’ dad are in the Sheriff’s office. Derek is taping up a photo on their clue board, and Stiles eyes it critically. 

“That’s not how you set up a clue board,” he says. “The links are all wrong and your handwriting is barely decipherable, dad. Also, if you’re using transparent tape, you should put double face behind the picture. It doesn’t bring any information and is distracting.”

“Feeling better?” his dad asks in return, ignoring completely his son’s tirade.

“Sure. Can someone update me on what’s happening?”

“Derek and I have looking into disappearances in the county from these last five years. We’ve noticed a few in the preserve or just around, and we’ve narrowed it to six cases these last few months where people disappeared without any sign of struggle, at the surprise of their families, and were never seen again.”

“Have you compared the names to the dead pool?”

“Yes,” Derek answers.

“And the chimera list?”

“Yes, and Natalie’s list too. The six people are on one or the other.”

Of course they don’t need him anymore. Even Natalie has a list now, wonderful. Well, they’ve had seven years to learn how to deal with the supernatural without him. As he approaches the board, he notices Post-Its under the six photos: _Ch_ for chimera, he guesses, and _WW_ for werewolf.

“What’s _On_?” he asks.

“An ondine apparently. It’s like a mermaid, but it lives in a lake, I guess?” The Sheriff turns to Derek, asking for his approval, and the werewolf nods. The whole interaction is alien to Stiles, who still remembers his dad hauling him out of a squad car containing a recently arrested Derek.

“We also have a werewolf, a werecat, an unknown chimera, a harpy, and someone we suspect is a druid, but Deaton won’t confirm or infirm. Apart from them all being supernaturals, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern.”

The board also contains the dates of the disappearances, which at first sight seem random, and a map of the preserve with pins for the places where they were last seen. Nothing jumps at him, but it rarely does at this point.

Derek gives him six neat folders. “You’re welcome to help us look,” he says. He understands Stiles’ need to be useful. At least, Stiles hopes. He takes the folders and sits on the floor in the corner of the room, while his dad and Chris leave the office.

“They’re talking about me, aren’t they?” Stiles asks.

“Listening would be an invasion of their privacy. But yes, they are.”

Derek is going to learn about his little outburst at breakfast and Stiles doesn’t want him to. He shared something with Chris that will unavoidably be twisted and turned into something else, because Chris never had all the information, and he doesn’t want Derek to misunderstand.

“I asked him if he saw Allison recently.”

Derek doesn’t say a word. He never punctuates when other people talk. No ‘hm hm,’ no nod, no ‘right,’ nothing. Not even an indication that he’s listening, and Stiles knows that Scott finds it difficult to talk to him because of that. But Stiles doesn’t. He sees the punctuation as an interruption, as a way of pretending you’re listening when you’re not really.

“He thinks it’s the guilt talking. He said it’s not my fault, that the Nogitsune killed her and not me.”

“He’s right. But you already know that.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and he stares at Derek, trying to find any clue that the werewolf knows his deepest and darkest secrets. He’s pretty sure that werewolves can’t read minds, but Derek’s evolved, and there’s even less literature about evolved werewolves than normal ones. Maybe it’s a skill they acquire with the full shift? No, it wouldn’t thematically make sense. The supernatural should at least make sense thematically.

“It’s okay,” Derek adds, his voice softer, like the one used to talk to a frightened animal. “I won’t tell them.” He sends Stiles a small smile from across the room. It’s nice, Stiles thinks. Then the smile disappears. “We’ll talk about this later.”

The door opens a second later and Stiles flinches. His dad tells them Chris and he are going to the preserve to check on the last known locations of the six missing people. Derek offers to bring Stiles home when they’re finished with the files, but Stiles is not duped: he’s simply replaced a hunter babysitter with a werewolf one.

He does his best to ignore them all by diving into the first folder. He reads every single word from every single page but doesn’t notice anything interesting. Setting it aside, he casts a look at Derek, who’s deep into one of Deaton’s book. There are quite a few Post-Its marking pages, and Derek is taking notes on a pad from time to time. He’s sitting at the Sheriff’s desk and it suits him.

Stiles shakes his head and attacks the second file. It’s only after the fourth one that he notices something: the dates seem random, but all disappearances took place either at dawn or at dusk. And the Seelie Queen offered to contact him at dusk. He opens the calendar app on his phone and checks the sunrise and sunset times for the dates of the six disappearances and confirms his hunch.

“I found something.”

He stands up and puts the folders on his dad’s desk. He’s added Post-Its with the sunrise and sunset times, and he hopes it will be enough for Derek to understand.

“They all disappeared at twilight?” the werewolf asks, and Stiles smiles in return. “I read something about that.” He opens the book at one of the marked pages and scans the page. “ _The fairy realms and ours are closer in border regions, like rivers and roads, as well as border moments, such as twilight, thus making it easier for the Fay to cross._ ” Derek frowns. “But what about Malia? She was taken in the middle of the night. And what about you?”

_Think, Stiles, think._ He takes his phone out and checks the sunrise and sunset times, but Malia was taken in the middle of the night, so they’re not helpful. That’s when he notices the date: June 21. Of course!

“The summer solstice is a border between seasons.”

Derek nods, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“We make a good team.” Stiles holds out his fist, but Derek only looks at it with a mix of confusion and disdain instead of bumping it. “Not a _great_ team, apparently, but still a good team.” Instead, the werewolf grabs his phone and calls Stiles’ dad, telling him about what they’ve just figured out.

“So I guess there’s only one thing to do now,” Stiles says once Derek has hung up. “Celebratory milkshake,” he says, as the same time as Derek’s “We should check in with Lydia.”

Stiles makes puppy eyes at the werewolf until he relents. “Fine, celebratory milkshake, and then we’ll check in with Lydia.” He gets his keys from his slacks pocket and adds: “Your dad was right. This is babysitting.”

“Hey, I haven’t gone off by myself this time. And I can behave if bribed with food. Sweet sugary food.”

Derek drives to the closest diner, where he orders a glass of water while Stiles requests a custom milkshake with three different kinds of chocolate ice cream. Derek looks disgusted, which makes the milkshake even sweeter. Stiles savors it, his eyes closed, and it’s the first thing that has gone right since he’s arrived in Beacon Hills. Maybe this place is safe, maybe he should draw a mountain ash circle around it and stay forever. Well, if he has to stay forever, he should probably find an easier company.

“You’re quiet,” Derek states.

“Well, I can’t really talk.”

“Then talk about something not fairy-related.” Derek scoffs exasperated; usually, that only happens when Stiles talks too much.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything. Just… when you’re quiet, it’s unsettling.”

“ _I_ am unsettling?”

“Yes you are. Now talk.”

Stiles sees it as a challenge: he needs to remind Derek of all those times where he talked so much that Derek pushed him into a wall to shut him up. Well, if possible without the wall part, but Derek seems more in control these days.

So he talks about Lydia, who is still at the center of his life. He tells Derek how he honestly thought he would spend the rest of his life with her. Then one day, he came home from work at four in the morning, slipped into the bed by her side, and she told him they should break up. “In some way, we already have,” she added when he asked why, and he knew exactly what she meant. They barely saw each other anymore, and they both had other priorities—his job, her PhD—that made their relationship take the backseat.

“You miss her,” Derek guesses.

“We still live together. Hell, we still share a bed because the couch is much too uncomfortable. I can’t really miss her, I see her exactly as much as I did when we were together.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. But I don’t have an answer to your not-question.”

Derek doesn’t push, so Stiles talks about his Jeep and how it died a couple years back. It’s still parked in his father’s garage, though, in the hope that they ever stumble upon a magical mechanic. Derek smiles, and Stiles sees it at a sign to continue, so he talks about Matagot, Lydia and his cat, and how one of the reasons he hasn’t moved out is because he doesn’t want to have to choose who will get her. Stiles doesn’t care about the apartment, or the furniture, or the books; Lydia can take whatever she wants. But the cat is a friend to them both and he can neither let him go with Lydia, nor keep her away from his ex-girlfriend.

“Please don’t tell Lydia,” he asks, even though he knows Derek won’t. Some things go without saying, but it’s still better to say them aloud.

“I won’t.”

There’s something cathartic in talking freely after spending half a day considering his words and being stopped by his own mind. He feels like he could talk for hours, but he doesn’t want to bother Derek any more than he’s already done. Somehow, he doubts he could do more than mildly annoy him anyway, and he gives up on his challenge. Derek’s such a good listener and he’s done so much for him in the last twelve hours that even Stiles’ most childish instincts settle down for a minute.

He plays with his straw in his milkshake, staring at the last of the ice cream melting at the bottom of his glass.

“You look better,” Derek finally says.

“Talking does that to me,” Stiles answers with a smile. “Imagine how I will look in two hours of telling you about my stupid love life. I can regale you with the tale of our moving in without electricity because I misread the date, or the time Lydia left the cinema in the middle of our date to find something to write equations on, or the Matagot incident, or…”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“You’re babbling.”

“I know. I tend to do that. In my defense, I’m tired, hungover, and…” _Under some kind of spell_ , he wants to add, but ironically, he can’t. He thumps the table with his fist and then puts his head into his hands. A shaky breath, not quite a sob but not as far from it as he’d like, leaves his lips. Everything was going so well that he’d forgotten about the Seelie Queen for a moment.

“It’s okay,” Derek says, his voice soft, and Stiles hates it, because it’s not okay that a fairy cursed him, but he can’t say it. So he says nothing. For a while, there’s only the sound of his shaky breaths, and then Derek starts talking.

“You’re not the only one with a shitty love life, you know. I mean, apart from Scott and Malia, it hasn’t been easy for any of us.”

Stiles liked Braeden, Derek’s old girlfriend a lot. They made such a cute couple, and Stiles had been relieved to see Derek with someone who wasn’t trying to use him. But it’s been years since he last had an update on Derek’s love life, and since the werewolf is willingly offering information, Stiles just has to ask.

“What happened to Braeden?”

Derek seems taken aback by the question for an instant, and then his face settles into a familiar frown.

“We broke up years ago.”

“I know that. I mean, I guessed that, since we haven’t seen her around. Not that I’ve seen _you_ around much, because, well, I’ve been in Boston. So, what happened?”

Derek takes a big breath. “I told everyone that it was mutual, but it wasn’t.” He turns his head to look through the window and his jaw clenches just a bit. “She dumped me. I changed too much.”

Stiles raises his head to really look at Derek. To the casual observer, the werewolf’s face would look unexpressive, but Stiles notices the slight tension at the corner of his mouth, the way his shoulders are raised, and the fact that he’s crossed his arms on the table as protection. Stiles used to like Braeden, but he now hates her for hurting his friend.

“The bitch,” he mutters.

Derek huffs, more amused than angry. “I’d love to make her the villain in this story, but I was human when we started dating. That’s quite a change.” He shrugs.

“How long were you two together?”

“A year and half.”

“Well, she sucks. If she loved human you, she should have loved werewolf you.”

“I think she wanted someone she could protect. I didn’t need so much protection afterwards.”

“Like I said, she sucks.”

Derek sighs and stands up, reminding Stiles that they need to see Lydia. Stiles grumbles theatrically and follows his friend to the SUV. Once they drive off, he notices just how cold he feels, so he starts fumbling with the A/C buttons and Derek shoos him with a wave of his hand.

“There’s a jacket on the backseat. Some of us are not freezing by 83 degrees.”

“I’m tired. I’m always cold when I’m tired.” He takes the jacket, a light military jacket and drapes it over himself like a blanket. There’s something with cars that makes him sleepy on a good day, and he gives up on keeping his eyes open.

Derek shakes him awake when they’ve arrived at Lydia’s house, and Lydia’s mom opens the door when they ring, with a smile that disappears when she realizes that Stiles is on the other side. She took the breakup worse than Lydia did.

“Hello Natalie. Is Lydia here?” he asks with his most innocent smile. She rolls her eyes.

“Yes. The girls are in the pool, I’m sure you’ll find your way.”

She lets them in and they cross the house to reach the garden. Stiles isn’t sure what to expect, but certainly not Kira in shorts and a tank top, sitting cross-legged on a chaise longue, meditating, and Cora and Lydia in bikinis and sunglasses in the pool. They certainly don’t seem very panicked by the events of last night.

Lydia is lying on her back, holding a pool noodle under her arms, with only her eyes, nose and mouth out of the water. Her long strawberry-blond hair dances behind her in the water and Stiles melts at the sight. He remembers falling in love with her and could do it all over again in the blink of an eye if he’s not really careful.

Cora is standing by her side, her feet not quite reaching the bottom of the pool, moving her arms and legs to stay afloat. She’s the first one to notice them.

“Stay where you are,” she whispers so loudly that even Stiles hears.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lydia says, her voice slow and raw. She opens her big green eyes that Stiles loves so much, but doesn’t move, not even to look at them. “I know they’re here.”

Cora growls and exits the pool, splashing water all over Derek and Stiles. “Your turn,” she tells them. “We’ve been at this for hours and nothing ever happens. I’m hungry, bored, and restless. I’m going for a run.”

She touches her brother’s shoulder before wrapping herself into a towel and sitting on a chaise longue to dry her hair.

“No thank you. I still don’t like pools very much,” Stiles answers.

“Me neither,” Derek adds, and they share a knowing grin.

Cora rolls her eyes. “You wimps. So the big bad wolf and little red riding hood are both afraid of a little water.”

“They’re not getting in the pool,” Lydia interrupts. “Let it go.”

Cora crosses her arms and stares at Stiles. Had he not been subject to Derek’s dark looks for years, he would probably be afraid of his little sister. Instead, he finds himself telling her the story.

“Once upon a time, back in… sophomore year of high school, I think? Derek and I were near the pool for some reason…”

“Looking for trouble, most likely,” Lydia comments.

“No, I think he had Erica kidnap me or something ridiculous like that. We were attacked by a kanima, Derek was paralyzed and I kept him afloat for literal hours. After that, I blamed a chlorine allergy to skip swim classes. It went right over Coach’s head.”

“Every time I hear a story from your pasts,” Cora says, “I wonder just how you always got yourselves in those crazy situations. South America is nice, you know; nothing like that ever happens.”

“I’m sure it’s very boring,” Stiles says like a joke, but he really thinks it. And he hates himself for it a little.

“What were you trying to do?” Derek asks Lydia.

“Minimize my sensatory inputs to try to provoke a premonition. It didn’t work.”

“Did you try automatic writing? Psychometry? Vibrations?” Stiles checks.

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

She gets out of the pool with slow movements and takes a towel to dry her hair.

“Nothing’s working. I haven’t heard anything since the singing man, and we already know what it meant.” She bites her lip and casts a pained look at Stiles that tells him more than words would. She still feels Death coming. He reaches out and touches her arm, and it’s like electricity. He takes his hand away, surprised. Lydia turns her head and closes her eyes, like she usually does when she hears something, so he doesn’t dare move.

When she opens her eyes again, they are entirely focused on Stiles. “You will not utter one word to your friends about the Seelie and their Queen, and you will not mention our agreement,” she quotes.

“Was that her?” Cora asks. “Did the Seelie Queen say that to you, Stiles?”

Stiles’ shoulders tense. He wants to tell her yes, but even that single word can’t pass his lips.

“Don’t ask him questions he can’t answer.” Stiles is surprised to hear Derek’s voice, especially standing up for him, but he relaxes a bit. “It’s useless,” Derek adds, like an excuse, but Stiles isn’t duped. Derek cares,

“I heard her voice when you touched me, Stiles,” Lydia interrupts. “Do it again.”

For some reason he can’t explain just yet, Stiles looks at Derek’s face, waiting for his approval. It is stupid, because nobody knows more about Lydia’s powers than he does, and Derek’s not his alpha, not even an alpha anymore. Yet, Stiles waits for the werewolf’s nod before touching Lydia’s hand.

There’s an electrical shock. Stiles’ instincts almost make him let go, but he forces himself to intertwine his fingers with hers instead. Her eyes are closed, her mouth is slightly open, and he knows she’s having a vision. In those cases, there’s nothing to do but wait.

She opens her eyes, puts her free hand in front of her mouth, and then slips from Stiles’ grip and jumps straight into the pool. Despite the water, they hear her scream, and it sends shivers down his spine. Someone’s going to die. He suddenly feels really cold and he wishes he hadn’t left Derek’s jacket in the car. He looks around and sees that everyone has paled. Even Kira has finally stood up and she looks ready to jump after the banshee.

When Lydia resurfaces, Stiles offers her his hand, but she refuses it. She instead takes Kira’s. Stiles wants to hold Lydia more than anything, to whisper nothings to her, to help her calm down, but he can’t do that either, can he? He’s completely and entirely useless. Cora drapes her with a dry towel, and Kira sits by her side.

“I saw three deaths,” Lydia says, grave and raw. “A grey-eyed man, stuck with a sword; a black-haired woman in a long cape, poisoned; another man, burned alive.”

“Fay or human?” Cora asks, and Stiles rolls his eyes. The question may be pertinent, but…

“I’ve never seen a Fay before, so people with strange clothing that may or may not be Fay?” She’s shivering, so Cora rubs her back through the towel.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks Lydia, his voice as calm as he can get it to be. She looks at him, lost.

“It smells like iron, and almond, and ash, and I’m not sure which is worst.” She shakes her head and sits straighter. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I didn’t see Malia. Now go forth, the two of you. Go find Scott and keep him updated. We have a pool party to get back to.”

She’s tried humor, but it’s obvious her heart isn’t in it. This is one of the reasons they broke up, Stiles thinks. Even after years together, Lydia refuses any help. She wants to be strong, and so in her moments of weakness, she acts tough. He’s tried reaching for her before, but it only makes things worse. She needs this, the appearance of strength, and standing idly by her side in those moments makes him crazy. So he leaves, soon followed by Derek.

They sit in the car, but Derek doesn’t start it immediately. He stays silent for a long moment, before taking out his phone to send a message, and finally starting the car.

“Put something on the radio,” he commands.

“Am I allowed to touch the controls? You never know, I may slip and increase the temperature.”

Instead of answering, Derek turns a knob on the console, setting the A/C to 75 instead of 68. Stiles can’t help but wonder why the change of heart, but when he tries to ask, Derek shuts him off by increasing the volume, and seriously, that’s not music, so he gets distracted changing the radio and debating, mostly with himself, whether this new wave of electro pop-rock will become an inspiration to future generations, like rock and roll or punk were, or entirely forgotten like nu metal. Derek nods from time to time, which convinces Stiles he’s not listening at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be a bit late next week, so next chapter should be up on Thursday instead of Wednesday.


	5. It’d be easier to mime

Scott is waiting for them at the vet clinic. He doesn’t look like someone who’s just pulled an all-nighter and Stiles is a bit jealous. He invites them in the examination room, where Deaton is frowning over a map of the county. Isaac is playing on his phone in the corner of the room, while Inès is crushing some flower in a mortar.

She’s pretty, Stiles thinks idly. Not beautiful like Lydia, but she looks innocent, with her light dress, her long blond braid, and her pale lips drawn into a permanent soft smile. She looks so trustful that Stiles immediately suspects her. Of what, he doesn’t know yet, but she must be guilty of something.

He doesn’t even try to tell Scott about the latest discoveries they’ve made and lets Derek lead the conversation. After a minute or so, he slides down the wall next to Isaac, because it’s not like they need him. As it happens, Stiles’ dad has already called Scott to tell him about the disappearances.

“The missing werewolf is Joy Waldrop, and I know her alpha. She’s a woman named Rhonda, she’s taken over Satomi’s territory a couple years back. I called her, and she will help us cast a locating spell on Joy.”

“Like I was afraid, we haven’t been able to pinpoint a location for Malia,” Deaton explains. “Her captors’ presence confuses druid magic. Hopefully, casting a second spell could refine our results.”

“I called my alpha,” Isaac adds. “Our bestiary has some information about fairies. Don’t eat anything they offer, don’t make a pact with them, blah blah. They like to play tricks on human, but they’re not really dangerous.”

Stiles already knows he’s fucked up by making a deal with the Seelie Queen, he doesn’t need Isaac to remind him. Then again, what choice did he have? Malia is missing, and without him, they wouldn’t have one piece of information.

“My alpha suggests de-escalation,” Isaac continues, “and the formal signing of a peace treaty; if that doesn’t work, iron kills them. Chris went home to check his armory for suitable weapons.”

“Lydia smelled iron,” Stiles reminds Derek in his first contribution they’ve arrived. The werewolf nods in return.

After a while, it’s obvious that they are mostly in the way of Inès cooking some kind of potion, and Deaton preparing to cast another spell, and Scott pacing while he waits for Rhonda, and even Isaac, who’s actually texting with his pack, looking for more information. No one complains, but the examination room feels tinier than it was when they arrived, so Derek suggests they take their leave and Stiles agrees.

“I’ve spent most of the day in your car,” Stiles notices, “and it’s still not growing on me. It’s an automatic, it has like a zillion airbags, and I’m pretty sure the seats are heated. It’s all very… suburban. The Camaro wasn’t boring, at least.”

“Are you suggesting I’ve become boring? That’s worse than reliable.”

“No, of course not. Well actually, I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t really talked to you in years, apart from ‘hi’ and ‘happy holidays.’ Have you become boring?”

“I hope not.”

“What have you been up to?”

“Stiles,” Derek growls, but it’s not enough to shut him up.

“Where do you live? Did you get a job? A new girlfriend? A boyfriend? Have you travelled? Oh my god, did you finally buy a TV?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “The sun is setting in half an hour. Where are you supposed to meet your contact?”

Stiles appreciates Derek not using any name, but it’s not helping. He can’t answer: the spell is not letting him, and even if it did, the Seelie Queen never gave him a location.

“Do you need a pen and paper?” Derek asks.

“We’re in a car, it’d be easier to mime.”

Derek rubs his brow. “This is getting really silly, even for Beacon Hills. Just put the address in the GPS.”

“That’s only rubbing in the unattractiveness of your car.” Still, he puts Nowhere, Oklahoma as their destination. Stiles loved Categories as a kid, and he once answered Nowhere to a places prompt. His father had to look whether it was a real place that existed, but Stiles was awarded his point, and it still provides pertinent information today, apparently. Well, it may depend on your definition of pertinent.

Derek looks at the 24 hours ETA and sighs. “Very funny.” Then he realizes. “You don’t know where you’re supposed to meet.” There’s a moment of silence interrupted by the GPS, insisting they turn right in 200 yards, and Derek shuts it up by removing the destination. “We should find a border, then.”

“The county line just north of the preserve. It’s also the line between forest and fields, maybe it will help.” He doesn’t know if the Fay have up-to-date maps with actual roads on them, but he can’t wonder about it aloud. Stupid spell.

Derek looks in his mirrors and makes a U-turn. The sky is a mix of oranges and reds when he finally parks along the road. Stiles unlocks his belt, but before he can exit the car, Derek’s hand is on his arm, holding tight enough to keep him from moving, but not so much that it hurts.

“Here are the rules. You don’t leave my sight even for one second. If you see or hear anything strange, you tell me. If you can’t, mime it, paint it with all the colors of the wind, I don’t care. And under no circumstances you are to follow a stranger through the woods. Is that understood?”

“Yes dad,” Stiles answers childishly.

Derek tightens his hold. “Don’t you joke with this. If you’re not intending to behave, my boring car has a big trunk that can keep you until nightfall.” His words are angry, but his expression is tenser than anything else. Is he scared? Is Derek Hale scared? Somehow, the thought removes all the funny quips from Stiles’ mind.

“I’ll stay by your side, I promise.”

“Good.” Derek releases him, and they exit the car. They walk along the edge of the forest, looking at the sun setting behind the line of the trees. Stiles puts his hands deep into his pockets. He objectively knows it’s not that cold, but he’s so tired his body doesn’t remember how to produce heat. He can’t stop walking without shivering.

Derek hasn’t said a word since they left the car. He’s trying to look casual, but Stiles sees the way he glances at the trees, or inhales deeper, or listens carefully, searching for any sign the Fay are coming. He doesn’t make any noise when he’s moving, and it takes a couple steps for Stiles to realize that Derek has stopped.

“They’re here,” he whispers just loud enough for Stiles to hear.

Derek places himself between Stiles and the forest, looking through the veil of the trees for something, anything that would indicate they’re not alone. Stiles hears a noise behind him and turns towards the road, back-to-back with Derek.

“What was that noise?” Stiles whispers.

No answer.

“Derek?” he whispers a little louder.

He casts a look behind him, but the werewolf is gone.

“Derek!” he shouts. A flight of birds takes off deep in the forest, but no werewolves rush by his side. His heart beats loud in his ears and he tenses. “Where the hell are you?” he asks, even though he’s pretty sure it’s useless. The Fay muddle the senses, and Stiles is pretty sure that wherever Derek is, he can’t hear him. 

Stiles puts a hand on his heart, trying to soothe it down with little success. He wasn’t scared before, when Derek was with him, but now, alone in the silent preserve, he’s terrified.

“Hello?” he calls out, because the faster he finds the Queen’s envoy, the faster he’s going home.

“Right here,” a voice answers behind him, and he doesn’t even fall as he turns. He stumbles, he falters, he flails, but he does not fall. A woman stands before him, her silhouette darkened against the last rays of sunlight. She’s wearing a dark cape that covers most of her form, apart from her clear blue eyes, but the voice is definitely feminine. And somehow… familiar.

“Follow me,” she says, offering her hand. Her cape slightly parts, freeing a couple strands of her long chocolate hair.

Stiles hesitates. He promised Derek he wouldn’t chase a stranger through the woods, and he doesn’t feel like breaking this promise right now. Also, he’s still a bit scared, and she’s not reassuring in the least.

“I’d rather stay here, if that’s the same to you. We’re parked right there, and I’ve already walked a lot today, and…”

“I do not care.”

“I promised someone I wouldn’t go into the forest. So I have to stay close. You know, pacts, deals…”

“Will you shut up if we stay here?”

She’s not like the Queen or the other Fay he met earlier. There’s actual emotion in her voice; irritation, mostly, but it’s still much more than the Queen.

“Sure,” he answers.

“Then here’s my information. Kallan has taken your alpha’s mate and is preparing to sell her.”

“I beg your pardon? Sell her? What for?”

“I do not know, but he will be meeting his buyer tomorrow at dawn, so you will have to move quickly. There’s an abandoned subway station a few miles from here, do you know it?”

Stiles scoffs. How could he ever forget Derek’s creepy lair, second of the name? “I wish I could say no, but I do.”

“Good. You should know that the Queen has offered to turn a blind eye if anything were to happen to Kallan. Goodbye.”

“That’s it?” Stiles is bemused. “I had to come all the way to the fairy realm for a one-minute conversation?”

“Yes. And now, you’re going back to your own realm.”

“You’re not going to do the touching my forehead thing, so that I fall asleep here and wake up on the hard forest floor with my back hurting and my dignity broken?”

“I’m not.” Stiles can’t see her face, but he hears her amusement and he doesn’t like it one bit. “He is,” she finishes. Stiles turns and finds himself face-to-face with a man holding his hand up, and before he can say a thing, fingers are on his brow and he falls asleep.

He’s woken up by someone shaking him up and saying his name. he opens his eyes groggily and sees Derek, even paler than usual in the moonlight.

“Alright, alright, I’m back. Again.”

Derek releases him and collapses in relief. They end up sitting on the ground next to each other in silence. Stiles is pretty sure Derek is embarrassed by his own caring, and even if Stiles finds it sweet, he won’t say a word. Once he finds himself awake enough, Stiles stands up carefully, and because his left leg is still asleep, he almost falls. Instead, he hops to the closest tree for support.

Derek looks at him and snorts, and like that all the tension is gone. Stiles giggles in return, not that there’s anything funny in almost ending up head first on the ground, and they end up laughing until Stiles’ ribs hurt. He wipes the tears from the corner of his eyes.

“Can you walk?” Derek asks, mocking.

“I think so. Doesn’t mean I won’t trip over my own feet though.”

“Where are we going? Do you need to put the address in the GPS?”

“I hope not, because I don’t even know if there’s an address. We’re going to the old subway station.”

“The one I used to live in?”

“Yup. I guess it gives us strategic advantage?”

They get back in the car and Stiles calls Scott. They agree to meet at Derek’s loft with the rest of the pack to plan Malia’s hopefully heroic rescue. Stiles is freezing, so he grabs Derek’s jacket on the backseat and drapes it over himself.

“You’re still cold,” Derek states.

And that’s enough to make Stiles snap. “Do you ever ask questions? ‘Are you okay, Stiles?’ ‘Do you need to talk about your kidnapping, Stiles?’ No, you always just say things, like you know better than I do how I feel. It’s creepy. It’s like you were raised by wolves.”

“I was raised by wolves.”

“Not the point. So far from the freaking point it might as well be fighting with a light saber or cursing in droidspeak. So yes, I’m cold. I’m freezing, it’s like my bones are made of ice and I just can’t warm up. And I thought it was the exhaustion, but it’s obviously not, because I’ve slept and it’s only getting worse.”

“Coldness is a side effect of using magic.”

“Oh yeah? Well I don’t have magic, I have a stupid useless spark that I don’t even use most of the time, so wrong diagnosis.”

“Stiles, for once in your life, shut up and listen.” Derek is still focused on the road, but his entire posture radiates anger. His hands are clenched on the wheel, his jaw is tense, and he’s still really pale. “The Fay can use what little magic you have to power their spells. That’s why you’re still exhausted, and that’s why you’re cold all the time.”

“Oh,” Stiles answers sheepishly.

“Oh indeed. And by the way, what I was trying to say at first before you rudely interrupted is that there’s an actual blanket one foot from the jacket you borrowed without asking.”

Stiles turns, his knees on the seat, one hand on the headrest, and stretches out to grab the white blanket, which has slipped under Derek’s seat. He can almost touch it, when the car takes a hard right and he topples over Derek, his ass almost in the werewolf’s face.

“What are you doing?” Derek growls.

“I’m trying to grab the stupid blanket. Why did you turn?”

“There was a turn. It was either that or driving into a tree. I wasn’t expecting you to tip over me! I’ve known you for years, and I’m still amazed by your grace.”

“Not everyone can have werewolf reflexes,” Stiles mumbles, but he’s finally reached the blanket, and he puts on the jacket before making a cocoon out of the white piece of cloth. He’s still cold from the inside out, but he’s a bit more comfortable. 

Derek takes a deep breath and settles down. “If you need to talk, you know that I will listen. You don’t have to scream at me.”

Stiles sighs. He knows that, but he’s still not sure that Derek won’t hate him for talking too much. Also, he’s still under that spell. He focuses on his breathing, trying to find the right words.

“I turned my back for one second, and you weren’t there anymore,” he finally says. “Well, I wasn’t there anymore, I guess, so it’s not your fault, but I was terrified. I’m not sure why, because I dealt with creepy stuff after you left, and I learned how to be by myself when it happens—because believe it or not, creepy stuff didn’t stop happening when you left.”

Stiles waits an instant for some kind of punctuation from Derek, but nothing.

“But tonight, I was scared. Maybe it’s because of what Lydia said, maybe it’s because it’s all too easy, don’t you think? They gave us an address, we just need to go there and pick up Malia. It’s never that easy, it’s always months of running around in circles, and waiting for the other shoe to drop, and people horribly dying. Am I paranoid?”

“It seems a bit too easy, yes. But maybe we deserve easy, for once. Maybe it’s regression to the mean. We’re preparing a wedding, which is good, so Malia gets kidnapped, which is bad, so we save her, which brings us back to the middle.”

“You spent too much time with Scott,” Stiles answers, refusing to admit how jealous that makes him. Of who, anyway? Derek, for spending time with Stiles’ best friend, or Scott, for having seen Derek evolve into this new person he barely knows?

“Maybe. But it’s a good philosophy.”

“Why did you leave?” Stiles suddenly blurts out. He’s been meaning to ask the question for years, but at first, Derek wasn’t there to answer it, and when he finally found him, he was terrified of hearing the answer; terrified that the question might make Derek leave again. But tonight, in the relative comfort of the SUV, and after a few shared confidences during the day, he really needs to know. Even if he’s still not sure he’s going to like the answer.

Derek’s gaze doesn’t stray from the road and his face is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there a moment before.

“You probably shouldn’t ask that question.”

“I know.”

“This is going to change the way you see me.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you really sure you want me to answer?”

“You abandoned us. Our lives went to hell when you went away, and we needed you. I needed you. I did something really bad in senior year, and you were the only person I thought would understand, but you weren’t there. And so Theo… Hey, if you had been here, you could have shoved Theo into a wall or two!” Stiles grins at the idea. He’s sure Derek would have been suspicious of Theo too. “So yeah, we really needed you, and right now, I want to trust you more than anything, because you’ve been awesome, but I’m still scared that you’re going to run away to South America or something.”

“I’m not.” He takes a big breath. “After the fire, I couldn’t control the shift. I was a danger to others, and Laura told me to find an anchor. I think I scared her. So I anchored myself in the pain, and the anger, and the rage, and I let it fill me.”

“You weren’t puppies and dandelions when you first came back to Beacon Hills, that’s for sure,” Stiles says to fill the silence that has fallen while Derek looks for his next words. “My skull remembers, and so does the Jeep’s steering wheel.”

“Sorry about that.” Derek smiles fondly, as if it was a good memory. It’s not a good memory to Stiles. Then, Derek’s face closes again. “After Peter and Kate died, the first time, I looked for something, anything to replace the anger. I tried to build a pack, make them my anchor, but it never really worked. And when I lost them, I thought I would lose myself, but I didn’t.”

“You had found another anchor?”

“Something like that. When I saw Boyd at my feet, I wanted to lash out, to give in to the wolf, but you put your hand on my shoulder and I remained human.”

“So what, _I’m_ your anchor? I’m your… Allison?”

Derek softens, just a tiny bit, and almost looks amused at the idea. “It’s different. You’re my humanity. You made me laugh when I’d forgotten how, you showed me compassion when you were in pain too, you helped me when it would have been easier to leave me behind. And so every time I felt overwhelmed, every time the wolf threatened to take over, I thought of you and just how stubbornly human you were.”

“That’s… a lot to take in.” Stiles swallows hard.

Derek doesn’t talk about his feelings, it’s a known fact, like the law of conservation of energy or the fact that there never was a movie adaptation of _The last airbender_. And now that he has, at length, Stiles still isn’t sure what Derek’s feelings actually are. They’re friends, he knows that, but even if he’s not his Allison, it doesn’t keep him from wondering if maybe Derek has romantic feelings for him. Or had. This is all very confusing.

He remembers flirting with Derek, back when he was in high school, but it was all fun and games, because they were both straight—well, mostly straight in Stiles’ case. But maybe it wasn’t, not to Derek, and Stiles suddenly feels very guilty.

“But why did you leave?” he finally asks, his voice half stuck in his throat.

“Because I couldn’t put that on you. You were seventeen, you didn’t need a werewolf relying on you to stay human. It was too much, and…” Derek stops in the middle of his sentence, as if the words are too hard. He takes a shaky breath. “And I didn’t want to become your Kate.”

There’s a lot Derek hasn’t said about Kate, and Stiles never asked, because he could easily play connect the dots and figure out how she had used Derek.

“It wasn’t the same. I wouldn’t have thought it was the same.”

“You were too young to decide that, so I had to get away. I didn’t want to abandon you or the pack, it was never my intention.”

Derek stops, leaving so much unsaid that Stiles barely knows where to start.

“You thought you had to protect us,” he translates “To protect me. From yourself.”

“Something like that.”

“God, Derek, you’re thick sometimes. I’m sure there was another way than jumping on a plane and run away to another hemisphere. You could have talked to us. I was a kid, sure, but… Scratch that, I wasn’t a kid. Not really, not anymore. I’m not sure what the body count has to be for someone to become an actual adult, but I feel like I reached this point somewhere in junior year.”

“Yeah,” Derek answers. He’s probably reached his daily word quota.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that we’re still friends. Well, it’s been years and we may have to learn how to be friends again, but this doesn’t make me hate you, or fear you, or whatever you were scared of. If anything, I can start trusting you again. If you swear you’re never running away again before talking to us.”

To me, he wants to say, but it’s gotten personal enough, and he’s not sure Derek can deal with anymore discomfort.

“I’m not going away, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Wednesdays have been hectic recently, so I think next chapter should be up on next Thursday.


	6. The greatest love story in the whole town

Derek parks the car and Stiles looks through the window.

“You still live in the loft?”

“I moved back a few years ago.”

The loft is no Camaro, but it’s much wilder than the SUV, so Stiles smiles and follows Derek inside. They climb way too many floors before they reach Derek’s loft, still the only one occupied in the whole building.

The interior hasn’t changed much. It’s pretty bare, with barely more furniture than Stiles and Lydia have in a quarter of the surface. Stiles remembers a bed in the corner of the room, but it has apparently been moved to a more sensible place. A loveseat and an armchair have been added to the couch.

“I’m dreaming, it’s not possible.”

“What?” Derek asks, frowning.

“You bought a TV! I can’t believe it, you actually own a piece of technology from after the fifties.”

“Does that make me even more boring?”

“Not by itself, but I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

“The tuner’s not plugged in.”

“So you have a TV, but you can’t actually watch TV? That’s a shame, I was already imagining you in front of _Real housewives_. What’s it for then?”

“There’s an Xbox. Scott and Liam play when they come over.”

“Don’t tell me you bought a TV _and_ an Xbox, and they’re for the pack.”

Derek nods and Stiles melts. This proves just how much Derek has changed. He remembers the sour wolf who told them to get off his property and is delighted to know that the man now welcomes friends and puppies alike in his home.

“Alright, what games do you have?” Stiles does as if he were in his own house and opens the drawer below the TV. He finds an adequate collection and browses the titles he hasn’t played yet.

“Life or death situation, try to focus.”

“We have to wait for the others to arrive anyway. I might as well catch up on years of not having time to play. Oh, you’ve got the latest _Battlefield_ , I heard you play a cop in it.”

“Aren’t you an actual FBI agent?”

“Yeah, but I rarely do drug busts and off-the-book missions in real life. Is it any good?”

“According to Mason, the story is ‘shite.’”

Stiles puts the game box back and continues his browsing, while Derek leaves for the kitchen. When he comes back, he’s laden with a tray holding glasses and bottles of juice, which he sets on the coffee table.

“Do you need any help?” Stiles asks.

“Play your game.”

Stiles joins Derek and helps him unload. The door slides open, he jumps and drops a glass, which shatters on the floor. Derek breathes out loudly through his nose, like a father ready to give up on his kid, and Stiles tries to look as innocent as he can. The look hasn’t worked on his dad for almost twenty years, and he has no hope of it ever working on Derek, but he still tries it.

“Don’t. Move.” Derek grunts. “Scott, keep an eye on him. He’s quite intent on killing himself today. Or making me kill him, I'm not sure.”

Stiles turns toward the door to see Scott, Isaac, Inès, Jackson, and Ethan enter the loft. “I’m fine,” he tells them. “I was just really surprised by Derek owning a TV.”

Scott takes his thin jacket off and hangs it on the rack behind the door, and the others follow his lead. He then sits on the couch, while Isaac and Inès take the loveseat. Ethan is the last to enter the apartment and he looks uncomfortable. Jackson encourages him with a touch on his lower back.

Stiles suddenly remembers Boyd’s death. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then, but even if no one will talk about it anymore, it’s obvious that Ethan still can’t forgive himself. Stiles knows a lot about undying guilt, and he hurts for the werewolf.

The girls, including Hayden, arrive after, and the puppies soon join them too. There are fifteen people around the coffee table, some of them sitting on the floor—well, Lydia has of course claimed the armchair, so Stiles is seated on its arm. He doesn’t dare touch her, and she can barely look at him.

It’s so strange, seeing them after all this time. Everything has changed, and yet everything is exactly the same. They’ve all grown up, but the simple fact that they’re reunited in this room shows that their relationship, their pack, is still going strong despite the separation. He looks at them with a smile on his face, despite the circumstances.

Scott, Liam and Mason are sharing the couch, the latter two arguing in whispers over something related to the pile of books on Mason’s lap. Corey, sitting on the couch’s arm, rolls his eyes, knowing that there’s no point in trying to get between the two friends. Alec apparently hasn’t learned that lesson yet, because he says something to them from behind the couch, and all three puppies turn to him with death stares.

Isaac has pulled Inès on his lap to leave some space on the loveseat for Kira. The kitsune is looking as stiff as earlier, but Stiles notices her gaze going from face to face, resting longer on the ones she’s never seen before. Hayden is sitting on the floor next to them, trying her very best to avoid Liam’s eyes—thankfully, he seems too busy arguing with Mason to pay any attention to her.

Jackson and Ethan are standing against the wall, set back from the group. Ethan is still much too pale, and even if he tries to be discreet about it, Jackson keeps him in constant contact, be it fingers brushing against each other’s, or shoulders bumping, or a pat on the arm. They are each other’s anchors, Stiles thinks, and no, it’s a really bad idea to think about anchors right now. Or anchors at all, ever.

Derek and Cora bring plates of finger food, because werewolves are always hungry, and Stiles remembers that he’s not had dinner yet. He’s actually the first one to jump on a mini-quiche—how suburban of Derek—which does wonders for his state of mind.

The door opens once more, and three people he hadn’t expected enter the room: his father, Chris, and Peter. The Sheriff and the hunter are apparently trying to calm the werewolf down, with little success.

“My daughter has been taken, and nobody thought of calling me? I had to learn about it from an Argent, of all people. Do you realize how silly this whole situation is?”

“Liam Neeson was less terrifying,” Stiles whispers to Scott, which earns him a chuckle.

“Whispering is useless, Stiles. I’m still a werewolf in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, I haven’t. I meant for you to hear that. Will you do the whole monologue when we find her kidnappers? They’ll be terrified of your _very particular set of skills_.”

“Alright, alright, children, settle down.” The Sheriff stands between them, hands raised in a posture he’s used too many times in his job. “Scott,” he calls out, and the alpha summarizes the situation.

“Malia’s been taken by a Fay named Kallan. He’s holding her, and most likely a few other supernaturals, in the abandoned subway station. Am I forgetting something?”

He looks at Stiles, who weighs carefully his words. “They’ll be gone by morning, so we have to go tonight.”

“This is getting better and better.” Scott sighs. “Alright, Mason, what have you found?”

Mason adjusts a pile of books on his lap and goes to open the first one, but Liam interrupts him. “Iron can kill them. We could use silver too, but it only works on the bad fairies, the Unseelie ones.”

“More importantly,” Mason adds, “they are strong and can heal like werewolves. They can control nature, read minds, and shape shift.”

“Also,” Corey says, “they can mesmerize people by looking into their eyes.”

Mason clears his throat, visibly unhappy of the interruption. “And finally, if you pour salt or sugar in front of them, they have to stop whatever they’re doing to count each grain.”

Stiles scoffs, but in his defense, so do half the people in the room. Including, he notices, Derek, which makes it even funnier. “That’s your plan?” Stiles asks. “Pouring sugar in front of them? Do you want to plan a whole tea party for them too?”

“That’s not a plan, that’s the lore.” Mason had a look on his face that told Stiles that they still would be carrying sugar. Just in case.

“Come on,” Liam interrupts. “The plan is easy, there are three entrances and eighteen of us, we split in three groups and we overwhelm them. They’re just fairies.”

“There are not eighteen of us,” Peter suggests. “If my count is correct, there are four humans here who won’t be coming with us, and a banshee, who I’d rather not hear screaming ever again; no offense, dear.”

“Oh, I’m plenty offended,” Lydia spits. “Makes me want to scream, actually.”

“Cry me a river.”

“What we need is recon,” Stiles says to cut the useless argument. “Will you listen to an actual FBI agent?”

“And how do you think we’ll do that?” Mason asks. “We’re just going to knock on the door and hope they’ll open?”

“No. We’ve got a secret weapon. Lydia, my love, will you scream for me?”

She looks at him as if it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. Well, today, because she wears this expression a lot. That’s the downfall of always being the cleverest person in a room.

“Wait, are you two dating?” Jackson asks.

“You’re only noticing now?” Ethan wonders.

“I thought it was a joke. Didn’t you?”

“Well, we’re not dating anymore,” Lydia answers. “Which is why you’re not supposed to call me love, Stiles. Also, I don’t have to scream to scour the place. I just need something connected to it. Plans, a picture, an object that’s tied to it. Derek?”

Derek thinks for a moment. “I honestly left it all behind when I moved here. I could probably draw a plan from memory, if it helps.”

Lydia bites her lip and looks around, looking for an idea. The figurative bulb lights up above her head. “Well, _you_ used to live there. You can be my link.”

A few minutes later, they're sharing the loveseat. Lydia’s eyes are closed and she's holding Derek's hands. Her mouth is slightly open and her eyelids are moving.

“How does this work?” Alec asks, and Lydia immediately opens her eyes, her lips tightened into a pout. Liam shushes Alec and she closes her eyes again. Then Peter cracks his knuckles, and she opens her eyes again, this time standing up and pulling Derek to his feet.

“Let's go upstairs,” she says, and he follows without a word.

Stiles is strangely jealous. He isn't sure why, though, because nothing will happen, and he's broken up with Lydia anyway. She even dated that one guy since then; he can't remember his name, because he was a douche, and he tries only remembering pertinent information. He wasn't jealous then, just horrified by Lydia's taste.

“Now that she's gone,” Jackson says, “can someone explain to me how Lydia and Stiles ended together.”

Scott tells him about the Wild Hunt and Stiles missing.

“We’re the greatest love story in the whole town,” Stiles adds. “Maybe the county even.”

“But you're not together anymore.”

“Well, it's fate. We couldn't work in this lifetime, but maybe in the next one. We’re like Hawkman and Hawkgirl, destined to find each other in every lifetime and lose our love too soon.”

He's only half joking, but he still gets a smirk from Jackson. How does he do that so easily? Had anyone ever told him how hard it is to actually smirk without looking like you're grimacing? Did he train a lot in front of the mirror?

They're interrupted by Lydia's voice coming from upstairs. “Stiles, come on up, we need your help.”

Stiles obeys, ignoring the cat calls as he finds the stairs— _very mature, guys_. He's never been upstairs and he's not sure what he was expecting, but not a white painted hallway with four very normal wooden doors. Only one of them is open, and Lydia is resting her shoulder against the jamb, her long legs crossed at the heel, her free hand on her hip. She's always so graceful, even just waiting. When she sees him, she turns her back and he follows her into the room.

There are twin beds in the room, both made, a desk, and a closet, but it doesn't look lived in. A guest bedroom, he guesses. Derek is standing next to a wall high window, staring at something Stiles cannot see, because the sky is black as ink and there's hardly any human lights out there.

“What can I do for you?”

“I feel something when I touch Derek, but I can't... reach it. I need you to hold me too for it to work, I think.”

“If we forget about the whole innuendo issue, because life and death situation here, you think I can help you channel what you feel when you… hm… okay, I get the difficulty of the thing…”

“It’s the opposite, actually. I want to go back to the vision I had earlier today and use Derek to guide me from there to the subway station.”

“Alright, why not. It's not as strange as the thing with Mrs. Andrews' umbrella, or the one with the noodles we just had to pick up on the other side of town.”

“You have an agitated life,” Derek comments.

The three of them sit on one of the beds, Lydia in the middle, offering her hand to Stiles, who takes it. She immediately gets a vision that makes her frown deeply, creasing her perfect forehead. Derek looks at Stiles, who silently nods, and then the werewolf takes her hand. She arches back, her long hair touching the blankets, her eyes suddenly open wide, and the shaking starts.

Stiles puts his free hand under her head and guides her until she lies on her side. He can hear her breathing, slow and ragged, and he would like to let her go, but they need all the information she can gather, and he's not subjecting her to this again. Derek looks lost, like he has no idea what to do.

“Is she in pain?” Stiles mouths, and Derek nods in return. “Take it.”

Not a second later, Stiles sees the dark lines on Derek’s arm, and Lydia’s shaking diminishes. As a welcome side effect, Derek also relaxes, tension leaving his face. Stiles brushes a strand of strawberry blond hair and tucks it behind her ear. He wishes he had a watch, because without it, he can only count the seconds in his head.

Approximatively a hundred and twenty seconds later, he releases her hand, and Derek follows suit. She breathes easier and opens her eyes. “It worked,” she croaked. “Malia's there, and she's not alone.”

They help her sit and give her a few minutes to get her bearings back. She asks Stiles for a glass of water, and when he suggests their host would be better suited for the task, she all but begs him to go.

Downstairs, everybody’s been casually eavesdropping, and even the humans are up-to-date. Stiles is handed a glass of water by Scott without a word and he climbs the stairs again. Lydia gulps down her drink, and they all go downstairs this time.

“Malia's at the subway station, in a cage with three other people. They all look in good health, if tired.” She bites her lip. “One of them is Theo.”

Various reactions around the room: Liam and Mason seem pained for the guy; Hayden and Kira share an astonished look—had no one told them he'd crawled back from hell? Bad guys just can't stay dead in this town—; Inès and Isaac look like Scott when he finally decided to watch the Star Wars movies and started with _Revenge of the Sith_.

“One more person to rescue,” Scott says, because he's accepted long ago that this was his job and the circumstances didn't matter. “I don't think he's been there long, Rhonda would have told me he was missing.”

“Actually, he looks like he's been there the longest. His clothes are torn and it's like… his fire has gone out. There’s something dead in his eyes.”

“What can you tell us about the kidnappers?” Chris never gets distracted by innocent—or not so innocent—victims.

“There are seven of them. I think three of them are either Fay or very good cosplay artists. The rest is wearing more sensible clothing, but I'm not sure they're human. Two men, two women, wearing leather jackets with the same patch. Does anyone have a pen?”

They all look at each other, barely remembering the last time they used one, before the Sheriff sighs and gives her his notepad and pen. She quickly draws a logo that she shows them: two interlaced eights cut down in the middle by a straight line.

“Werewolves,” Derek says. “The White pack.”

“Mercenaries,” Chris adds. “Very loyal to their money.”

“I’m sure we can take four werewolves and three fairies,” Liam says. “So what’s the plan?”

That’s Stiles’ favorite part. Placing his chess pieces to ensure victory. Of course, the execution itself is always messy, but the planning is almost relaxing.

“The one thing we want to avoid is for…” And of course, he gets stuck once more by the stupid curse. “Derek?”

“The Fay.”

“Thank you. For them to leave with Malia and the other prisoners. So we rush in, and we close all entrances with mountain ash.”

“Does mountain ash work on Fay?” Alec asks.

Stiles looks at the puppies, who were responsible for research, but Mason merely shrugs. Isaac shakes his head too. “It doesn’t matter. Let them run away for all I care. Mason, how do we protect ourselves from their various abilities?”

“Well, the one that bothers me most is the mesmer, and for that, they need to look directly into our eyes.”

Scott visibly shivers at that, remembering the last time they had to find an enemy they couldn’t look at.

“No one needs to gouge their eyes out, don’t worry.” Mason raises his hands in appeasement. It doesn’t work. “Sunglasses will be enough.”

“Inside? At night?” Peter asks. “Do we need man purses and scarves too? You should have told me we were supposed to accessorize.”

“Peter,” Cora growls, and Derek looks at her fondly. Peter raises his hands in defeat and steps back into the darkness.

“What else, Mason?”

“There’s not much we can do about the mind reading, apart from not thinking too much, and as it’s underground, there shouldn’t be any nature to control.”

“There are plants,” Lydia interrupts, her eyes closed in remembrance. “Ivy, I think. A lot of it climbing the walls. I guess the Fay do control nature.”

“Alright, cut them to the ground if they’re an issue.”

The plan starts actually looking like one. But there’s still something obvious missing.

“Chris, did you bring any iron weapons?”

“A few. Iron weapons belong in museums, but I thankfully have a couple spears and a few swords, that my father made us forge as part of our hunter’s training. Not enough for everyone, though.”

“We’ll manage,” Scott says. “We have to. But before we go any further, I’d like to know who’s not coming. Everyone is welcome, but if you don’t think you can fight a Fay, no one will judge you for staying behind.”

Two hands raise: Mason, who’s about as squishy as Stiles used to be, and the Sheriff. He can’t be seen doing anything illegal, and he doesn’t have the time to list all the infractions he would have to commit if he follows them. He’ll be around the corner as a backup if needed, though. Scott nods in agreement. They both seem used to that conversation, and Stiles wonders how many monsters they’ve fought without him.

Scott frowns at Inès. “I’m sorry to ask that, but can we trust you to handle yourself in a fight?”

She smiles, all softness and niceness, and takes a tiny glass bottle from her pocket. “ _Je peux créer le cercle de sorbier_ ,” she says, and Stiles doesn’t need a translation, because she removes the cork and with a graceful gesture of her free hand, invites the mountain ash to exit the bottle and dance around it in rings.

Controlling mountain ash used to be Stiles’ thing, the one and only thing he could do his friends couldn’t, but she’s much better at it than he ever was, and once more, he feels so very human. So very weak.

“All right, so Inès will stay outside with Mason and the Sheriff. The three of you wait for us in the car once the barrier is up. The rest of us will split into three teams, led by Chris, Derek and myself.”

The three of them pick their teams, dividing up the werewolves between the groups. Stiles gets a flashback of his lacrosse years, where he was always the last one to get picked. And this time, it looks like no one’s picking him at all.

“Aren’t you forgetting about someone?”

“Right,” Scott says. “Lydia, you’re with me. Do we need earplugs?”

She rolls her eyes and doesn’t answer.

“I was talking about me,” Stiles says. “I’m not a useless human anymore, I can use a gun. Dad, give me your gun. I’m not allowed to take mine over state lines yet.”

“I’m not giving you my service weapon.”

“Then Chris, I’m sure you a couple guns you won’t miss it.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice a low growl. “You’re in my team. I called your name earlier, but you were lost in your thoughts.”

“Oh.”

They finalize the plan: Chris’ team’s objective is to incapacitate the werewolves without killing them, using tranquilizer and kanima’s venom; Scott’s team will release the prisoners; Derek’s team will take care of the Fay. Everything always sounds easier once chopped up in parts, but Stiles is pretty sure that the execution won’t be half as smooth.

Chris arms them as well as he can. He gives Stiles a gun, small and steady, and picks a sword for Derek, who tries to refuse it, telling him that he will be deadlier with his bare claws, but the hunter is apparently more stubborn, and Derek takes the weapon. They fix a rendezvous point, and everyone leaves the loft.

Once only Derek and he are left, Stiles closes the door. He knows from experience that the loft is soundproof and no one, not even the wolves, will hear the words he’s about to say. Derek looks at him, a mix of surprise and worry.

“Before we go, I want you to know that you’re not my Kate. You never were, and you never will be, because you care about me. You care about all of us. And I trust you with my life, like I have so many times before.”

“Okay.”

Stiles isn’t sure what response he was expecting, but he’s surprised by Derek’s easy acceptance. He tries to remain casual as he continues.

“Cool. So let’s stop walking on eggs and start acting as the friends we are. Oh shit…”

That’s when he realizes. _You will not utter a word to your friends_ , the Seelie Queen had said.

“Forget everything I’ve just said and tell me we’re not friends.” Stiles is frantic, and he begins pacing. “Tell me… I don’t know, tell me you hate me, and we’re enemies or something, whatever, just say we’re not friends.”

“We’re not friends?” Derek asks, half frowning, half smiling.

“Like you mean it. We’re not friends,” he offers as an example, his voice flat.

“Alright. I’m not sure I understand, but if it helps, we’re not friends.”

Stiles feels a pressure on his mind release. He hadn’t noticed it was there before, but now that it’s gone, it’s obvious that something was pushing on his brain, and he wonders how he didn’t end up with a migraine or worst.

“The Fay, the Seelie Queen, fricking Morgan. I’m not allowed to talk about them with my friends. But since you and I are not friends, I can tell you everything. Technicalities. I love technicalities.”

“What about you tell me everything in the car?” Derek dangles a key in front of Stiles’ eyes, who immediately recognizes the logo.

“A Camaro? I thought you’d sold it!”

“I did. I sold the first one.” And then the smuggest smile shows on Derek’ face. “That’s the second one. The one I stole.”

“I take back every single thing I said, you’re not boring. Does it skid for no reason? Does it have a ludicrous zero-to-sixty no one can ever hope to achieve on the open road? Is it a stick shift?”

“Better than that. Paddle shift automatic. Wanna drive?”

“You trust me with your car? I can talk about whatever I want, and I’m going to drive your Camaro. It’s the best day of my life, and it’s because we’re not friends anymore. I certainly didn’t see that coming.”

As they prepare to leave, there’s a knock at the door. Derek slides it open, revealing Mason’s sheepish face. “Can I borrow some sugar?”

And Stiles burst into laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, kudosing and bookmarking!


	7. I’m climbing the social ladder

The Camaro doesn’t growl enough for Stiles’ taste, but it’s still an awesome car. He’s almost disappointed that the ride is so short, but he has the time to tell Derek everything he couldn’t make him guess. He tells him that Kallan betrayed the Queen and that she wants him dead—but that his death is not part of the deal.

“What’s the deal, exactly?”

“Well, she gave me information on Malia’s location.”

“And in return?”

“Almost nothing. I simply have to take her daughter to the wedding. She’s not a killer, I made the Queen promise.”

“Alright. Sounds too good to be true, but we’ll keep an eye on the princess.”

“Right.” Stiles laughs. “She’s a princess. I’m taking a fairy princess to an alpha’s wedding. I’m climbing the social ladder!”

“I wouldn’t call it that. There has to be a catch somewhere, the Queen wouldn’t have asked you if there wasn’t.”

“The real reason she offered this deal is because it makes us her pawns in breaking Kallan’s little kidnapping circle slash rebellion. She can’t come to our world without provoking wars, and that’s not what she wants. At least for now.”

“You believe her?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s hiding most of her intentions, but I trust this deal. Slightly more than I trust our capability to execute a plan without getting someone hurt, unfortunately.”

“We’ve gotten better at that part.”

Stiles hopes Derek is right, but the first five minutes of the fight prove him wrong.

It all starts well enough. They rush inside, as planned, and Inès closes the mountain ash circle behind them, as planned. Chris finds a vantage point and shoots the first White werewolf with ease, but tranquilizers take at least a minute to work. Ethan and Isaac are holding the werewolf as well as they can, but he frees one arm and elbows Derek, who’s struggling with one of the Fay.

Then in a second, the battle turns: Derek’s sunglasses fall, the Fay catches him by the throat and looks into his eyes. The second Derek is released, Stiles sees him staring at the crowd, and he knows exactly what the werewolf is doing: looking for the weak link.

They can win against four werewolves and three Fay, but against Derek, they’ve already lost, Stiles knows it. Derek is terrifying in battle, and he knows all their weaknesses. And to prove it, he rushes toward Chris, jumping easily on top of the wagon the hunter has chosen as a high point.

Chris hasn’t realized Derek is controlled and he’s too slow to react, so Stiles does it for him. He aims at Derek and shoots. Standard bullets; they will hurt, but it will heal. He hits Derek’s left arm; no time to think too much of the repercussions right now.

“Derek!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. He needs to take the werewolf out of the equation. They’ll struggle without him on their side, but they will lose if he’s against them. Stiles has a small bag of mountain ash he was supposed to use on the White werewolves, but if he can isolate Derek somewhere, it’s their best chance.

Derek turns to him, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. His face is blank, as much as it can be with the fangs. He’s still not coming down. Stiles doesn’t let himself think, he forces himself to react instead. He turns toward the Fay who’s mesmerizing Derek and shoots a bullet center mass. It probably won’t do much, apart from hopefully putting Stiles at the top of Derek’s list.

Stiles only looks away from Derek for maybe two seconds, not even long enough to see if his bullet injured the Fay, but when he looks back, the werewolf is a foot away from him. He opens the bag and controls the mountain ash into a circle encompassing them both. At least the werewolf won’t be an issue for the others anymore, even if Stiles himself is prepared to start his seven minutes in hell.

He puts his free hand against Derek’s chest to hold him back, even though he knows he doesn’t have the strength, and keeps his gun aimed at his not-friend, safety on, finger off the trigger.

“Come on, Derek, I know you’re in there.” No reaction, which strangely is a good sign. At least Stiles is still alive and intact. Not getting mauled to death is a good thing. He lowers his weapon as a sign of good will.

“See? I told you I trusted you with my life. It probably would have been easier not to have to prove it right off the bat, but I meant it. I know you won’t hurt me.” Derek closes his eyes and frowns, but when he opens them again, they’re still as blank as before.

Stiles needs to think, but if he does too much, the Fay will know exactly how to react. “You need to turn,” he finally says. “All the way.” He’s not sure how the mesmer works, but theoretically, changing the brain’s nature must break it, and if Derek has the littlest grip on his actions, he’ll be able to shift.

“I’m here with you, and you haven’t attacked me, so you have control. You have more than you know. I’ll be your anchor if you need me, okay? Just shift, it’ll be alright.”

Derek closes his eyes again and focuses. Stiles feels the werewolf relax under his hand and he smiles softly. This will work. And then, he’s standing in a much too small mountain ash circle, with a hundred and seventy pounds of enormous black wolf pressed against his legs.

“Lassie?” he asks cheekily, and Derek growls in return. It worked.

Stiles pulls back the mountain ash into the bag—which used to be the neatest trick anyone could pull, but Inès just had to be better—and Derek runs to the Fay who mesmerized him. He limps, blood dripping along his front left paw, the one Stiles shot back when Derek was human, and he promises to apologize somehow.

But now’s not the time. Stiles turns to assess the situation: two White wolves are down in the corner, and Isaac and Hayden are struggling to hold the third one. Ethan is lying on the floor, and Jackson is keeping the fourth one away from his better half. Chris is trying to hit either remaining White werewolf, but they’re moving too fast.

Kira is fighting a duel with one of the Fay, their strengths tightly matched. Each cut from the kitsune’s sword is answered by another ivy tying her down. She’s not using electricity in any way, only relying on her swordsmanship. Then again, according to the great wisdom of the _Pokémon_ games, electricity is weak against plant, so maybe… wait, not the right time to care about that.

Peter has his claws around the second Fay’s neck and Cora has jumped onto his back, but the creature doesn’t seem to care. With one brush of his hand, he sends Peter right into a wall. The skin around the Fay’s neck is unblemished and he marches toward Peter, ignoring Cora still hanging onto his back.

Finally seeing someone he can help, Stiles picks Derek’s sword, which was lying on the floor.

“Peter!” he shouts, and then throws him the sword.

Peter catches it easily and pushes it into the Fay, who for once, doesn’t seem to expect it. There’s something to say about not thinking too much. Cora jumps down and puts her hands on Peter’s, granting him her strength.

The Fay grabs the blade, trying to push it back, but in his weakened state, he’s no match for two Hale werewolves. He coughs, releasing shiny white blood, and his eyes wide open, he tries to catch his breath.

Well, that one is taken care of, so Stiles looks for Derek. The wolf is dangling by his teeth, deep into the third Fay’s neck, who barely looks annoyed. Stiles can’t shoot without risking hurting Derek even worst, and he doesn’t have an iron weapon.

Suddenly, thunder rumbles outside, and the three Fay stop moving at once. Then, the one fighting Kira casts one last ivy at her before disappearing, soon followed by the one Derek was holding onto, causing the wolf to fall rather ungracefully on his butt, and then on his injured paw. Without thinking, because he doesn’t care about anything else right now, Stiles rushes to his side. He did _that_. Derek is hurt because of him.

He’s unsure whether he’s allowed to touch Derek when he’s a wolf. That topic wasn’t covered in his mother’s good manners lessons. He wants to, though, and he wishes he could take his pain.

“You okay?” he asks.

Derek answers with a glare. Obviously, he’s not. He’s lying on the ground, bleeding much more than Stiles has ever seen him, and he doesn’t seem in a rush to stand.

“Can I take a look?”

Derek nods weakly. Stiles unloads his gun, empties the chamber, holsters it, and puts the magazine and the bullet in his pocket. Then, he pushes the fur away as gently as he can, but the wolf still hisses weakly. The entry point is between his shoulder and elbow, and Stiles apologizes before turning slowly Derek’s paw to look for an exit point. If he’d been injured as a wolf, the bullet probably would have continued its trajectory into his chest, but as a human, the angle was different. Stiles sighs in relief when he finds the exit point. The wound is still bleeding too much, though.

“Look, it’s pretty clean, as far as bullet wounds go,” he tells Derek, “but you’re not healing. Should I put on a tourniquet or something?”

Derek shakes his head before settling it back on the ground. He closes his eyes. Stiles removes his shirt and turns it into a makeshift bandage. Whatever Derek might think, Stiles would rather see his blood inside his body than on the floor. He secures it as tight as he can, but the wolf doesn’t move, apart from his shaky breathing.

Stiles almost jumps when a hand touches his shoulder.

“We got them out,” Scott tells him. “What happened to him?”

“I shot him. And he’s not healing.”

Scott smiles sadly. They’ve been through battle so many times together, and yet Stiles can’t understand why he’s the one who always gets blood on his hands, figuratively or, in this case, literally. Scott looks as perfect as he did before he led their assault, even though everyone around them has been hurt one way or another. Maybe that’s the true alpha power. Keeping your hands and clothing clean, even in the heat of battle.

“He will heal, but it will take longer.”

“Why?”

“Because _you’re_ the one who hurt him. Sorry,” Scott adds with a wince.

“Because I am still his anchor.” Stiles closes his eyes and replays the scene. There must have been a way to take Derek out of the fight without shooting him. If he had better control over the mountain ash, he could have stopped him before he tried to attack Chris. Or he could have killed the Fay who was controlling him—somehow, he didn’t care about the creature’s white blood as he did Derek’s. Or…

“Stiles, he’s going to be okay, I promise. Just bring him home, somewhere he feels safe, and stay with him.”

Suddenly, Stiles’ oldest, deepest fears come to the surface and he can’t push them back down. “But what if he dies? What if I killed him?”

“Honestly, after all he’s been through, you think _you’re_ the one who’ll kill him? Believe me, he’s stronger than that.” Scott turns, assessing the situation.

The aftermath is a mess. While Inès and Chris secure the White pack members, Isaac and Jackson are helping Ethan to his feet, and Hayden is checking the extent of his bleeding head wound. Mason and Liam are freeing Kira from the ivy cocoon holding her, and Lydia leads the prisoners to the exit. Malia seems in good health, if furious, and Peter tries his best to look as if he doesn’t care. He’s not really good at it.

“Oh my poor Malia, what did they do to your hair?” Lydia asks, worried. The room is quiet now that the battle is over, and Stiles can easily hear the conversation.

“What?” Malia pats her head, her forehead tense. “Nothing, it’s fine.”

“Was it already that blond and asymmetrical at _Sinema_? Really shows how bad their lightning is for me not to notice. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

Theo looks grayer and thinner than he ought to be. Without Corey and Alec’s help, he probably wouldn’t be able to walk, and yet he’s mumbling a barely coherent diatribe about his pack not even noticing his absence. Cora is sitting on the ground, looking at her hands and trying to catch her breath.

“Cora!”

Scott calls her over and she raises her eyes. For the first time, she seems to notice her brother lying down in a pool of his own blood, and it shakes her awake. She jumps to her feet and rushes to him. She kneels by his side and puts her hand on his head, petting him tenderly. Stiles feels a ping of something in his chest, but he doesn’t want to examine it right now. Instead, he focuses on the dark lines running up her arms as she’s taking her brother’s pain.

“Derek, are you okay? Why aren’t you turning back?”

Derek lifts his head slowly, painfully, and looks at her. She must see something in his eyes than Stiles can’t because she smiles.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Derek turns carefully to lie on his stomach and Cora encourages him until he stands on three paws.

“Can you walk?” Stiles asks, worried.

Derek takes one shaky step, and then another, and next thing Stiles knows, Cora and he are following the wolf up the stairs. He leads them to the Camaro, and Stiles unlocks it. Cora opens the trunk and takes an old blanket that she sets down on the passenger seat. She helps Derek climb into the car, and he settles down on the blanket as comfortably as he can.

She then slips onto the back seat through the driver’s door, while Stiles checks on his makeshift bandage. The bleeding seems to have slowed down, but he doesn’t want to risk releasing pressure if he removes it to take a better look.

He checks once more that his gun’s chamber is empty and secures it into its case. This part is easy, this is what he’s trained for. He then takes the wheel. As he’s putting the key into the ignition, Scott taps on the window. Stiles jumps.

“Is everyone okay?” Stiles asks after rolling down the window.

“Yes. I’m entrusting Derek with you; Lydia and I will take care of everyone else, don’t worry about them.”

Scott casts him one of his asymmetrical smiles and presses his hand onto Stiles’ shoulder, before running back to the others.

Stiles turns the key and the motor purrs, but he doesn’t put the car into drive. He tries to think about the road back to the loft, but he can’t, because Derek is dying on the seat next to his, and it’s his fault. Scott said he would be okay, but Stiles can’t stop thinking about the fact that if Derek dies, he’s the one who killed him, because he was cocky and shot without thinking. Because he put all those thoughts about anchors to the back of his head and never got to ask any question that matters.

He focuses on the best path to take, but he remembers that the shortest one has a few potholes that can’t be avoided, and he’s not sure they would help Derek’s injuries. The other possible path is longer, but if he drives fast enough… No, he should drive slowly, not to take any more risks. But what if he is too slow and he can’t bring them to the loft in time?

“Don’t tell me you can’t drive the Camaro,” Cora whines. “It’s just a car.”

Stiles raises his hands and they’re shaking too much for him to trust them. He tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs refuse to fill.

“I… I can’t.”

A shallow breath turns into a sob and his eyes fill with water. He looks up to stop himself from crying, but his entire body is shuddering and they start falling freely.

“Give me your hand,” Cora orders, but Stiles can’t move anymore. Instead, he stares at his shaky fingers.

With a sigh, she unlocks her seatbelt and slithers between the front seats. She forcefully grabs him by the wrist and puts his hand on Derek’s chest. The wolf opens one eye and looks at them curiously.

“Can you feel his heartbeat?”

Stiles closes his eyes and exhales as deeply as he can, before focusing on his sense of touch. Derek’s fur is heavy, and he guesses that the fact he has not been bitten yet means he has permission on some level, so he slides his fingers deeper into the fur until they touch the skin. It takes him a few moments, but he finally feels it, fast, but steady.

“It’s getting stronger, and it will keep getting stronger. He’s healing, he just needs more time.”

The rhythmic thump under his fingers releases the tension that was keeping him upright, and he lets his head down. Derek raises his slowly and pushes his forehead against Stiles’ cheek, drying the tears that are still coming. Stiles chuckles.

“It tickles, you animal,” he says, his voice raw but amused.

Derek doesn’t stop, though, and Stiles finds it reassuring. Cora sits back and ties her seatbelt again, and he takes it as a sign that they’ve waited long enough. He reluctantly removes his head from Derek’s reach and sits straight on his seat, his right hand never leaving its spot on the wolf’s heart. He even puts the car in drive with his left one.

“Please don’t bleed out on the Camaro,” Stiles says. “The owner would never forgive me.”

Derek exhales quickly, in what would have passed for a scoff, had he been human, and Stiles smiles. He drives them to the loft in a few more minutes than needed, but in his defense, driving something that’s all muscle and bared teeth and slightly subdued aggression with one hand is pretty terrifying. And yet, he can’t let go of Derek. The slow rise and fall of his chest is Stiles’ lifeline at the moment, and he’s not ready to drop it.

Derek’s limping is slightly less pronounced, but he doesn’t insist on taking the stairs this time. Once in the loft, Cora protects the couch with towels and helps Derek climb on it. She sits by his side and he sets his head on her lap, accepting gratefully her scratching him between the ears.

Stiles isn’t sure what to do. This seems intimate, familial, and he’s not part of the family. Yet, Scott told him to stay, so he will.

“Can you close the curtains?” Cora asks. “He needs his rest.”

Stiles hadn’t noticed, but the day has risen while they were rescuing Malia. He draws the curtains shut, one window after the other, and when he gets back to the couch, Cora has put on a movie on the Xbox. He stands a few feet from the Hales, staring at the screen and trying to understand what Cora finds so funny, but it’s like humor has left his body, replaced by nervous exhaustion.

“You’re not gonna stand there all day, come sit with us.”

Stiles puts his hands into his pockets and sits at the opposite end of the couch. He doesn’t like being the odd one out, but he can’t possibly understand what’s going on in the head of a wolf. It’s always been hard for Stiles to stay idle, and as the movie lulls, he finally asks Cora: “What can I do to help?”

She stares at him for a while and he stares back. Stiles Stilinski hasn’t been afraid of any Hale for a long time. She’s the one looking down first, but it’s not a defeat; she’s simply checking on her brother’s needs.

“You could redo his bandage properly, I guess. Maybe clean the wound a little. There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom upstairs, under the sink.”

He finds it easily and is surprised to see that it’s as big as Melissa’s. He’s not sure why a werewolf would need so many supplies, but then again, he’s friends with Mason, who may not be as clumsy as Stiles was, but is still trying his best. Back in the main room, Cora scratches Derek’s ears.

“Can I?” he asks to nobody in particular.

“Are you that afraid of touching him?”

She could almost pass for perceptive if she wasn’t always so stern. Everything she says sounds like a reproach, and Stiles wonders if she’s only like that with him. She even softens when her brother is injured, apparently.

“I’m not afraid of him. It’s just very awkward because he can’t say no to anything right now. Maybe he doesn’t want me to touch him and…”

“If you do anything he doesn’t want you to do, believe me, you’ll know.”

Derek scoffs. Cora grabs Stiles’ hand and puts it on the wolf’s head. Stiles tentatively slides his fingers on the soft fur, and when Derek doesn’t react, he starts scratching like he’s seen Cora do before. Derek sighs in contentment and closes his eyes.

“He doesn’t think like a human when he’s a wolf. He’s tied first to his needs, food and pack mostly.”

“Am I pack?” Stiles asks, his throat painful.

“Of course you are. Now get to work.”

Carefully, Stiles removes carefully his shirt from Derek’s wound. It has stopped bleeding entirely and is very slowly closing. Melissa would probably have recommended a few stitches, but she’s not there and the werewolves seem to know what they’re doing and he trusts them.

He still cleans the dried blood with disinfectant as well as he can without hurting Derek and wraps it into a clean bandage. He’s become good at doing it during his years of ADHD-fueled clumsiness before he was diagnosed. Cora is looking at his hands with attention, but she doesn’t say a thing until he’s finished.

“Nice. I guess it’s my cue to leave. I’ll be upstairs if you need me, but it better be important.”

She’s half up the stairs by the time Stiles has realized she’s left him alone with Derek. Well, they’ve promised not to walk on eggs around each other, so there is no reason to feel awkward. Apart from the part with Derek is stuck as a wolf because Stiles shot him.

“I’ll probably have to say this again when you’re… less hairy,” Stiles murmurs, several minutes after he’s heard Cora’s door lock upstairs, “but I’m really really really sorry. For shooting you. I’m not sure there is any Hallmark card for that, but if there is, I’m going to cover your fridge with them.”

Derek raises his head and looks at him, and Stiles can see the human part in his eyes. The intelligence, the strength, the stubbornness. Even as a wolf, Derek is a good listener, and Stiles can’t keep himself from talking.

“I didn’t know wounds inflicted by anchors didn’t heal normally. Hell, I didn’t even know I still was your anchor. We really need to finish this discussion, because I’m sure you’ve left over some relevant points.”

Derek tilts his head.

“Okay, that was a wonderful conversation, very fulfilling on both sides, but I’m not even sure you understand everything I’m trying to say, so how about I watch TV while you nap?”

Derek stands up on the couch with more ease than before and turns so that his head rests on Stiles’ lap. The human raises his hands, unsure what to do with them, but the wolf sigh contently and his head becomes heavier.

“Growl if I’m doing anything wrong. But please don’t bite.”

Stiles sets one hand on Derek’s back and begins scratching his ears with the other. The wolf closes his eyes and quickly falls asleep. Lulled by the background sound of the TV and the softness of Derek’s fur between his fingers, Stiles follows soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it Thursday already? I had the fantastic idea of falling during a show jumping competition on Sunday (thankfully, nothing broken but my dignity and maybe my helmet), and I'm so sore it seems like everything's moving too fast this week. Still, I'm on time with this update!
> 
> So Malia's finally free, but the story isn't over yet. With this chapter, _Iron_ is over, and next week's chapter will be the beginning of _Almond_.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Public transportation will save the world

When Stiles wakes up, he feels rested, and the feeling is so alien that he sits upright with a jolt. It takes him a second to realize he’s lying on Derek’s couch, covered with a soft blanket. Derek himself is sitting on the armchair, holding an e-reader.

“Hello,” he says with an amused grin.

“Hmph,” Stiles answers eloquently. “Good morning. What time is it?”

“Not morning. By a long shot.”

There’s something strange with Derek, but Stiles is not sure what. The werewolf is wearing dark jeans and a white Henley, and he looks calm. His shoulders are relaxed, his elbows resting on his knees, and there’s that rare smile on his lips.

“I slept well,” Stiles says. “Your couch is awesome. Be careful or I’m going to set up camp here.”

Derek’s smile widens. “You slept like the dead.”

“Well, it’s really calm in here.”

Derek laughs.

“What?”

“The building could have collapsed, you wouldn’t have woken up.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I woke up, took a shower, prepared breakfast for Cora and I, and you didn’t stir. Then Lydia called to ask Cora to pick up Peter; she did and came back with him, still nothing from you. They had a shouting match over Peter’s relationship with Malia and the fact that he was making her crazy by being too fussy with her, and you didn’t open an eye. They both left slamming the door while I asked them to be quieter, and then you slept six more hours.”

“What can I say, I was exhausted.” Stiles yawns, sleepy tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Then, his brain starts working. “Hey, you’re human!” he realizes aloud.

“I wonder how we got by all those years without your investigative brilliance.”

Stiles ignores the sarcasm. “How are you feeling? Have you healed?”

“I’m much better, but I’m still healing. I think it will take a couple more days.”

“I’m so sorry.” Stiles is not sure how to apologize, but this seems like a good start. “I shouldn’t have shot you, but in the heat of the moment, I had no other plan. I should have done literally anything else, but I panicked, I think. I’m not sure. Well, I’m really sorry, and if there’s anything I can do…”

Derek sets his e-reader on the coffee table and sits on the couch next to Stiles, completely turned so that they face each other. “You saved Chris. You were the only one to react quick enough, and he would be dead without you.” He swallows hard. “I’m glad I don’t have his blood on my hands.”

“Are you thanking me for shooting you?” Stiles jokes.

“Well, I would have preferred if you’d thought of another way, but…” Derek closes his eyes and exhales forcefully. “But thank you for freeing my mind. It wasn’t a fun experience.”

There’s so much pain in Derek’s eyes that Stiles is afraid he’s going to drown in it. He wishes he didn’t know so well the nightmare of losing control of his own body, of feeling another being seeping through his memories, picking at his thoughts, his knowledge, his mind and his darkest fears, to better hurt his friends. He wishes he couldn’t remember that he wanted so badly to be released from the Nogitsune’s hold that he hoped someone would just kill him.

“Okay, hug time.” Stiles holds his arms out.

“What?”

“You really look like you need a hug. And I’ve been where you are, and let me tell you, hugs help.”

“I’m fine.”

“Come on, I’m your anchor, do what I say.”

“That’s not how it works.”

But Derek stays still when Stiles encircles him with his arms, and after a moment or two, relaxes enough to rest his head on Stiles’ shoulder. The regular pattern of the werewolf’s breathing reassures Stiles. He’s not injured too badly. Stiles releases Derek before it becomes awkward and they both sit back in the couch.

“You said we had a discussion to finish. I’m guessing you have questions about anchors.”

“Yes. You left seven years ago. How the hell am I still your anchor?”

“You decided to lead with an easy question,” Derek answers sarcastically, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s stalling. “I didn’t exactly expect it, but you’ve grounded me these past…” He checks his watch. “Thirty-six hours?”

“Did you need grounding?”

“My cousin went missing. You went missing. It wasn’t easy.”

“So you really couldn’t shift back, the other night in the preserve?”

“Not until you started talking and just wouldn’t shut up. Any other question?”

Stiles has a million, about how anchors work and about Derek’s wound, but none of them seems really important compared to the one that’s been burning his lips ever since he’s learned he is Derek’s anchor.

“I have one question, and I don’t want you to take it the bad way. It’s a bit touchy, and it’s probably going to be very awkward afterwards, but it doesn’t have to be. Whatever you answer, I promise it doesn’t change a thing for me, I’m just curious, because I think I may have been an asshole without realizing it, and…”

“Stiles.”

“Sorry. It’s not an easy question.”

Derek scoffs. “Unlike the last one?”

“Actually, yes. The last one _was_ easy in comparison.” Stiles shuffles on the couch, pressing his hands between his knees, carefully not looking at Derek. “Did you have feelings for me?”

Derek stands up with a jolt and takes a few steps away.

“Forget I asked. It’s just, you said you didn’t want to be my Kate, and…”

“Kate didn’t have feelings for me,” Derek growls, “if that’s what you’re implying. She used me. She toyed with me, tossed me aside, and tried to kill me way too many times to count.”

Stiles forces his voice to be as soft as he can. The one thing he doesn’t want is for the werewolf to run away and he regrets ever asking, but the cat is out of the bag now and he can only try some damage control. “I know.”

“You were _seventeen_ when I left. I was twenty-three.” Derek’s voice breaks at the words.

His heart heavy, Stiles wishes he could take the question back. There is no possible good answer and he only realizes it now. Derek’s words are harsh, but the truth they’re barely scraping is harsher. “I know,” he whispers again.

“Well I don’t.” Derek’s voice is raw. “I don’t fucking know, because whatever I may have been feeling at that time, it was a really bad idea on so many levels.”

Stiles is starting to paint a picture from Derek’s pointillism; he’s not sure just how realistic it is, but it’s all starting to make sense. Stiles’ humanity became Derek’s anchor, without either of them realizing. At some point, probably around the time of Boyd’s death, Derek understood, and somehow started developing undefined feelings for Stiles, because the whole anchor system is fucked up. Afraid he might act on those feelings and become like Kate, he ran away to South America.

“It’s okay,” Stiles finally says, his throat hurting. “I understand.”

He wants nothing more than to ask the obvious follow-up question: what about now? Does Derek have feelings for him right now? But nothing good can come from it, and you can only poke the werewolf so many times before getting bitten. So instead, he stands up.

“It’s getting late, I should get home.” He actually has no idea what time it is, but his father will probably be happy to see him. “Sorry again for shooting you.”

As he starts walking towards the door, Derek interrupts him.

“Where do you think you’re going? You don’t have a car.”

“To the bus stop. Public transportation will save the world, you know.”

“I’m driving you home.”

Without leaving a choice to Stiles, Derek picks his car keys and leads the way. On a normal day, Stiles would have protested and whined until he could do as he wanted, but the last thirty-six hours have been weird, and he doesn’t want to fight anymore. Plus, he’s argued enough with the werewolf for a while.

In the Camaro, Derek immediately picks some awful music and turns the volume up, so after fastening his belt, Stiles turns his back to him and stares out the window instead. It’s drizzling, and it suits his state of mind pretty well. He’s scared he’s broken their relationship, but he knows that only time can help. Right now, anything he can say will be held against him, so he says nothing.

And then he sees her. The ghost. Standing between the trees. Wearing her stupidly impractical white dress. Barefoot on the wet ground.

“Stop the car!” he shouts, and Derek slams on the brakes. The second the car has come to a halt, Stiles undoes his belt and opens the door. He’s run back to where he thinks he saw her in the time it takes Derek to react.

“What happened?”

“She was there. Allison. Can you smell her?”

Derek inhales, his eyes closed, and then shakes his head.

“I swear to you, she was there. And you can’t say that it’s exhaustion, because I slept like a baby. Also, I’m pretty sure ghosts don’t smell anyway. Do they?”

“Where did you see her?”

“Right around here. I think. All those trees look very much the same.”

Without a word, Derek starts following the edge of the forest, walking slowly and checking the ground a couple times. The more he walks, the more pronounced his frown is. He finally stops.

“There was someone there. Human, I think, but with the rain, the smell is barely there and I’m not sure how recently. Do you think it could have been someone looking like her?”

“You still think it’s the guilt,” Stiles states, disappointed. Derek is the only person he’s trusted with this, and the werewolf doesn’t even believe him.

“Occam’s razor. I don’t think ‘ghost’ has ever been the simplest solution to any problem.”

“So you don’t believe me. Well you know what? Fuck you. I’m walking home.”

Stiles puts his hands in his pockets, craving his old hoodies, and starts walking, his hair dripping rain. He crosses maybe five yards when Derek shouts his name and he stops in his tracks.

“I’m not leaving you by yourself, especially on a border. You’ve been kidnapped too many times already. Get in the fucking car.”

But Stiles is stubborn, so he starts walking again. His father’s house is only a couple miles away, and worst-case scenario, he’ll hitchhike. But apparently, Derek is stubborner, because he locks the car and follows suit.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles asks. “Go home. I'll be fine.”

At any point in the past, Derek would have turned back, Stiles knows it. He replays the last couple days in his head, trying to figure out when the werewolf became so clingy. Even after the first time Stiles went missing, Derek had no qualms leaving him with Chris Argent, but something changed since then.

He shivers. His hands are wet and freezing, and he puts them under his arms to try to warm them. If Derek and he were in the car, they would probably fight over the A/C controls. Except… After they left Lydia's, after her vision, Derek was suddenly more affable, raising the temperature and letting him pick the music. And just before that, he had sent a text. Stiles needs to read this text, he must understand what happened.

“Give me your phone,” he demands.

“Why?”

“Mine’s dead,” he improvises, “and I wanna call my dad.”

Derek obeys and unlocks his phone before lending it. Stiles opens the messages app and looks for a text dated from the day before. Thankfully, Derek doesn't send too many messages—on Scott's phone, singling one would have been _Mission: Impossible_ —and he easily locates it.

_Understood. I'll keep an eye on him._

Sent to Lydia. The puzzle snaps into place. He stops in his tracks, too shocked to keep walking.

“I'm one of the dead Lydia saw in her vision.” He's surprised to hear his own voice. He didn't mean to say it aloud.

Derek snatches his phone from Stiles’ hands. He looks at the screen intently, as if he was trying to convince it to show something else, anything else.

“After we left, you sat in the car for a while. She was talking to you.” The words barely escape his clenched teeth. He turns to look at Derek, but he can't catch his eyes, focused on the ground. “I'm one of the dead and nobody told me.”

Derek doesn’t even try to deny it. Stiles isn’t angry, not exactly, because when he is, it’s like this flame in his chest that wants to burn everything around him. Right now, he’s cold. He’s just so fucking cold, his heart is dripping icicles. He’s not even scared—they’ve obviously thwarted Lydia’s prediction, because they’ve freed Malia and there was only one dead, the Fay—, he’s hurt.

“Stiles,” Derek says carefully.

“No.” Stiles doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t feel the need to. “I don’t want to hear it, whatever this is. I thought we had something, you and I. Not _something_ something, obviously, but… some kind of trust. I told you about Lydia, you told me about Braeden, and yet it doesn’t matter, because you still think I’m a kid; you still think I can’t be trusted with information that pertains to myself.”

“We were trying to protect you.”

“Right. Because I need a babysitter.”

“Stiles.” His voice is low, and he drags the ‘I’ out, like he’s trying to calm an angry or a scared dog, but it’s not working, because Stiles is neither angry, scared, nor a dog.

“Don’t ‘Stiles’ me,” he says, his voice steady. “Do you realize just how painful it is, getting betrayed by you _and_ Lydia, because you think I can’t handle the truth? Next, you’re going to tell me Scott was in on it.”

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

“Good,” Stiles mutters. “Does my dad know?”

“No. Just Lydia, Cora, and I.”

“Good. Then, since you’re not going to leave me alone, just take me home. I’ll be _safe_ enough with my dad, won’t I?”

Without waiting for an answer, Stiles turns and walks to the car. With a sigh, Derek takes the wheel and drives to the Sheriff’s home. His head resting against the window, Stiles closes his eyes and tries to understand why he’s taken this so badly. If he forces himself to think logically, to put himself in Derek and Lydia’s shoes, it’s easy to realize that keeping his incoming death a secret was the best path. But that’s exactly why it hurts, because it was the good decision and it shouldn’t have been.

They think him weak, and rightly so. He’s trained, he’s learned self-defense, and he’s become really good at shooting, but he’s still human. He’s still poor old clumsy Stiles, and there’s nothing he can do to change that. Of course, he shows off his FBI badge and brags about everything he’s learned in Quantico, but no one is dupe. Especially not himself.

The distance between he and his friends has never felt so wide. His ex-girlfriend and whatever Derek is to him conspiring to hide things from him is only one symptom. Scott asking the puppies to plan his bachelor’s party is another obvious one.

And then, there’s Lydia…

When Mr. Grangers, their old neighbor, died a few months ago, Lydia screamed for what seemed like hours. Stiles held her, telling her she was alright and drying her tears, but the second she could stand, she left him there and went to her room to call Malia. She needed comfort, and she couldn’t get it from him.

He cried that night, his ears still ringing from the shattering scream, and pretended he was sad about Mr. Grangers. He felt so inadequate, and then ashamed that he was even thinking about himself in a moment like that. Even now, sometimes late at night, some remnant of tinnitus keeps him from falling asleep, and he knows he can never tell anyone about this. And he hates himself for thinking it.

“I’m sorry,” Derek suddenly says after long minutes of silence.

“Forget it,” Stiles answers. “This whole conversation is over. We’ve rescued Malia, I survived, everything’s peachy. I’ll go to the weeding with the princess, and then I’ll get back to my stupid job and my ridiculous living situation in Boston, and it’ll all be back to normal.”

“Will it?” And strangely, Stiles almost hear ‘will we?’ instead.

“Yeah,” he answers to both with a bit more indifference than he intended to.

Derek parks across the street from the Sheriff’s house, since there are already two cars parked in front: the Sheriff’s cruiser and Stiles’ rent car, which Lydia has commandeered. Well, it doesn’t matter. He just needs to ignore her on his way to his room. No need to start another pointless argument.

His plan is thwarted two minutes after they’d entered the house, when his dad casually lets him know that Theo is in his bed.

“Theo? Theo Raeken?”

“Do you know any other Theo?”

“Actually, yes, a colleague of mine. Nice guy, human, never went through literal hell…”

The Sheriff sighs and Stiles interrupts his tirade. “He’s not well. We’re not sure what the fairies did to him, but he’s weak and he’s not getting better.”

“He’s cold to the touch,” Lydia adds. “His temperature is in the low nineties and it’s only going down. Melissa isn’t sure how long he can survive like that.”

It’s no secret that Stiles dislikes Theo, but he still goes to see the chimera, if only because he’s in his room. Theo’s skin has no hint of color left anymore, and his breathing is so slow and weak that he looks dead. He’s almost disappearing under a small mountain of blankets and hot water bottles.

“Theo,” Stiles calls out.

The man opens his eyes with effort. As he recognizes Stiles, the corner of his lips goes up in an attempt of a smirk. “Come to gloat?”

“Actually, I came to sulk, maybe watch a movie, but you’re using my bed. I’d ask you to leave, but you don’t look like you can.”

“Yeah,” Theo rasps.

“What did they do to you?”

“Nothing… I remember…” Theo struggles to part his dried lips after the ‘m,’ and his words are slurred. His eyes are closing and opening again, slowly, as if the simple gesture was torture.

“How long were you there?”

“Weeks.”

Stiles sighs. Theo had been missing for weeks and nobody had realized it. He suddenly feels closer to the guy; they’re both outsiders now. And at the same time, he hadn’t even noticed that the chimera was absent from Scott’s party, and that no one had called him to participate to Malia’s rescue.

“What can I do?” Stiles asks.

But Theo doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed again, his lips slightly parted, his breathing slow. Stiles isn’t sure whether he fell asleep or passed out. He leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind himself, but he can’t force himself to go to the living room. So instead, he sits in the hallway and listens to the faint sound of conversations.

Lydia is updating Derek on Deaton’s hypothesis, something about the delicate balance of chimeras, and they seem like they’re handling it. Neither of them sounds like they’re going soon, so Stiles gets back to his feet and, avoiding the living room, exits the house through the back door.

Right now, he just wants to take his Jeep and drive somewhere, anywhere but here, but the car’s dead in the garage. So instead, he jumps over the backyard’s fence and starts walking towards the forest, his hands in his pockets. For once, nobody’s following him.

He feels the cord from his earbuds in his pockets and takes them out. His hands are shaking again and as he untangles the earbuds, they fall on the ground. He curses and kneels down to pick them up. His knees are wobbly too, and he struggles to get back to his feet.

He puts his music into random, and of course, the first song that plays is _Find my way back_ , and he loathes it; he’s never going to find his way back to Lydia, is he? She’s the love of his life, the most important person in his world, but they’re over and he should accept it.

He skips the song with difficulty, because his stupid hands just won’t stop shaking. He hates that he can’t even trust his own hands. It reminds him of being possessed, getting pushed into a corner of his mind, where he could feel everything but not act on any of it. Watching his own hands building a bomb or throwing Derek across the room is still the most terrible experience he’s ever lived, even if he only got those memories back after the Nogitsune was imprisoned in the Nemeton.

Lydia was there for him, then, and that’s when his crush turned into love. Once they were living together in Boston, he started daydreaming about their future, and it never really stopped after they broke up. She would earn her PhD and he would be promoted to a steadier position, and then they’d fall in love all over again. They’d get married, not in Beacon Hills because nothing good ever happens in Beacon Hills, but somewhere nice and peaceful; then they’d buy a cute little house in the suburbs, with a tree and a swing for the kids, and a pool for Lydia who loves swimming. And together, they’d erase their pasts, forget the rest of the world, and live only for each other.

But that’s never going to happen, he knows that now. He’s never felt so empty.

In hindsight, his memories of their relationship make it obvious. He remembers lying on the couch feverish, his head on Lydia’s lap while she brushed his wet hair from his forehead. She caught whatever he had a couple days later, but instead of leaning on him, she locked herself in her room and insisted he not see her, because she looked awful. As if she could ever.

He remembers planning a beautiful candlelit dinner for Valentine’s day, complete with the cutest teddy bear he could find, and her wondering what the occasion was. He remembers looking at engagement rings, but never being able to buy one because it was never the right moment. In truth, he was terrified that she would say no, but wouldn’t admit it to himself. How the hell did he not realize it before? He’s always loved her more than she has.

And yet, he doesn’t think he’ll ever find someone who completes him like Lydia did. Someone who knows what he went through, even if she can’t possibly understand. Someone to hold his hand when he’s not sure he can stand up anymore. Someone he wants to go back to every day, to share a meal with and chat for hours, or watch TV with in a comfortable silence.

Someone who loves him. Hopefully, as much as he loves them.

The night is starting to fall, and he turns back to go home when a heavy mist forms around his ankles. He looks at the trees, his heart beating so loud that he puts his hand on his chest to keep it in. They’re beeches. He officially hates beeches.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Not again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the mini-cliffhanger.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Are you quoting Oppenheimer?

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles turns and locates the source of the voice: the same woman the Queen sent him with Kallan’s location. At least, he thinks. The voice sounds the same, but as she’s still entirely hidden under a dark cape, it’s hard to be certain.

“I fulfilled my part of the deal. Well, the Queen’s part of the deal actually, but I’ll escort the princess to the wedding as promised. Please send me home. I’ll even take the unexpected nap on the forest ground.”

“You have. My Queen merely wants to thank you for your most helpful actions.”

“I didn’t do much. My friends did. Okay, I helped plan the whole thing, but the execution part, I really didn’t do much. Well, I shot a friend, but he was mind-controlled at the time, so that counts?”

The woman closes her eyes and sighs. “Shut up and follow me. Gosh you’re annoying.”

“I rant when I’m nervous.”

“Then don’t be. We’re not going to eat you.”

“Well, I wasn’t afraid of that ‘til now. And I would still rather go home.”

A glint of furor passes in her clear blue eyes. “You’re not going back to your world until you’ve talked with the Queen. She won’t hurt you.”

Stiles gives up and follows her, pulling his earbuds around his neck. They walk on a path between the beeches in silence, and he doesn’t take him long to notice they’re being followed. After all, he’s spent part of his formative years playing tag with werewolves in the forest. He listens carefully and hears probably two people behind them, one on the left, the other on the right. Stiles picks up the pace until he’s walking side by side with the Fay.

“We’re being followed,” he whispers.

“Not followed,” she answers with a normal voice. “Escorted by the Queen’s guard.”

“Why do we need an escort? Are we in danger?”

“No we’re not. Now shut up and walk.”

Stiles wonders about the woman at his side. She’s not like the other Fay he’s met, she’s so… human. The way she talks, the fact that she hides her face, something’s different. And now that he thinks about it, she’s probably not the one moving him sideways. The first time he met her, a Fay sent him back, and now, they’re escorted.

“You’re not Fay, are you?”

She almost misses a step but regains her composure so fast Stiles wonders if he’s imagined it. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you can’t send me back. You need a Fay to do that, that’s why we’re being…” He air-quotes the next word. “Escorted.”

“Interesting theory. Any other clue?”

“You’re hiding your face, because you don’t look like them.”

“Maybe I’m just really bad-looking. Also, Fay look just like humans.”

“Mostly, but they don’t really emote. They permanently look like a mixture of boredom, haughtiness and absolute zero coldness.”

“You think me different, but you haven’t seen my face.”

“But I can _hear_ your smile, even now. I’m a good distraction.”

“I’ll admit that you mildly amuse me. What do you think I am?”

“Human, I guess.”

“Okay. If I were human, why would I be living in the Fay realm and doing the bidding of the Seelie Queen?”

Stiles has to think for a second, but the answer is obvious. “Deal gone wrong. I don’t know, she promised you your love back in exchange for a year of servitude, like in _Hercules_? The Disney movie, not the myth.”

“You have a wonderful imagination.”

But she’s not denying it. She hasn’t denied a word he said, actually, so he’s probably right on at least some of his hypotheses. From now on, he’s going to consider her human, and as such, won’t trust a word she says. Not that he trusts whatever comes out of the Seelie Queen’s mouth very much.

He remembers the old puzzle with the two gatekeepers, the one Sarah must solve in _Labyrinth_. One of the gatekeepers always tells the truth, the other always lie, but she doesn’t know which is which. How can she find the correct door by asking them questions? In Stiles’ case, it’s a bit more complicated: he’s only got one gatekeeper, who either always tells the truth, or may or may not lie. Humans aren’t predictable enough to solve with one question.

“I haven’t caught your name,” he finally says, trying his best not to sound like he’s prying, which he totally is.

“That’s because I kept it to myself. We’ve arrived.”

And indeed, they were in the moonlit clearing. The Queen sits on her wooden throne, her back straight, looking down on the world. Her long blond hair is gathered into a complicated braid laced with jasmines and crowned with the same silver tiara as last time. She’s wearing a grey armor that leaves her arms bare and looks ceremonial at best.

When she sees Stiles, she dismisses her small court and grows a chair with a flicker of her wrist. That’s an awesome trick; it sure beats getting lost at Ikea. She offers the seat to Stiles who accepts it. It’s much softer than anything made of roots and branches ought to be.

“You're shaking like a leaf, child. Am I frightening you?”

“No. You exhaust me by making me travel sideways twice a day. Is there such a thing as interdimensional jetlag?”

“I would say that it saddens me, but as you know, I cannot lie.” She smiles, showing teeth white as snow and sharper than Allison’s arrows. “We work well together, don’t we, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Yes,” he says, pretty sure that’s the right answer.

“You have found your alpha’s mate and dispatched an enemy of mine. I would call that mutually beneficial.”

“Sure. No offense, but you didn’t have to make me come all the way here to tell me that. A letter would have been fine.”

“I extended this invitation because you may be in need of my help once more. Your friend is fading away and you have no idea why.”

“Are you talking about Theo? Because he’s not my friend.”

“I cannot lie. This Theo is your friend, and he is dying.”

Stiles remembers Theo lying in his bed, whiter than the sheets. The chimera would probably be shivering if he still had the strength. “Okay, sure. Do you know what’s happening to him?”

She stands up and he tries to follow, but she stops him with a flicker of her hand. “All beings require balance,” she lectures. “This is especially true of shapeshifters, whose body is shared by two spirits.” She opens her hands, and two soft balls appears in her palms, one white, one golden. They’re revolving slowly, until she claps her hands, bringing the lights together until their form one ball. It somehow reminds him of the images he’s seen of Jupiter, with currents fighting to reach the surface. “Your kitsune friend required training to regain hers.”

“So we should send Theo to the Skinwalkers?” Stiles asks.

“They wouldn’t be able to help. He was not born a shapeshifter, nor was he turned into one. He was made one by the alchemists from three spirits. Human, wolf, coyote.”

From her free hand appears a new ball, an orange one, and fuses it with the white and golden one. The lights turn faster and faster, like a tempest on the sea. It becomes a messy mix of colors, tendrils trying to escape the ball’s gravity, and a growl echoes in the clearing.

“They injected him with a concoction of their making to give him an artificial balance.”

She touches the ball with the tip of her finger and green light encircles it. White, yellow, and orange slow down, each color finding its place.

“However, the main ingredient of this potion of theirs is human magic, which gets disrupted by the mere presence of Fay.”

She closes her hand on the ball and it disappears.

“They really did nothing to him?” Stiles asks.

“He merely remained too long in their company.”

“What do we do, then? And how much is this information going to cost me?”

“This one is… How do humans say? Oh right, _on the house_. Consider it a thank you gift for not making me deal personally with Kallan. But this alone won’t be enough to save your friend.” She sits back down. “You know where to find the alchemists’ books for the recipe, but you lack magic. I can take that spark of yours, turn it into an ember, and make it burn brighter than a thousand suns.”

“Are you quoting Oppenheimer to me to try and convince me? That’s pretty ballsy.”

“I am not familiar with that figure.”

“That’s probably a good thing. Okay, let’s say I’m interested in your proposal. What’s it going to cost me? I’m still not up for giving you the first-born I don’t have yet, so no favor you’ll call later.”

She smiles at that. It’s cold and predatory. “Do not worry yourself, I have a favor in mind.” She raises her right hand, fore, middle, and ring fingers up. “There have been three thorns in my side. You have already taken care of the first one.” Ring finger gets down. “I would like you to tend to the others.”

“You want me to kill people?”

“Kill them or deliver them to me, the choice is yours. Both are murderers, if you had any qualms. The second one was Kallan’s buyer. Her name is Nyx, and she used people from your world as ingredients for her spells.” Middle finger goes down.

“What about the third one?”

“He killed my daughter,” she roars, her hand tightening into a fist, her nostrils flaring.

Stiles shivers, and then frowns. “Wait, I’m supposed to take your daughter to the wedding, am I not?”

The Queen closes her eyes for an instant. “Don’t be daft.” She relaxes her hand.

So the Queen wants to give him magic, the one thing he’s wanted, and in exchange, he only has to deliver two murderers to her realm. It doesn't sound as easy as freeing Malia did, but he knows the Queen must be playing with his feelings. And then, he remembers Lydia's vision.

“My friend saw me dying.”

“The _bean-sídhe_. She is right, your death is a possibility.”

“I'm not planning on dying anytime soon, so I think I'll pass on your deal.”

“Very well. Then the chimera will die, this is a certainty.”

“I just have to find a druid willing to pour his magic into the Dread Doctors’ serum, don't I? I'm sure Deaton would do it.”

“It is not that easy. Druidic magic is opposite to Fay magic. Your friend's body won’t tolerate it in his current weakened state. It _will_ kill him.”

Stiles closes his eyes and calculates probabilities. If Deaton can't do it, he must find another magic user. Lydia and he met a witch back in Boston, maybe she could do the trick.

“How long does he have?” he asks, his voice trembling.

“Hours at best, I am afraid.” Her voice softens at the words. “I do not appreciate my kind endangering yours.”

“I don't want to die.” His throat is knotted, because somehow, it’s only now that he realizes the impact of Lydia's vision. Until now, he was too busy thinking about how alienated he’s become to understand that his days are counted.

“You don't have to. I have told you everything you need to know for both you and your friend to live. You will be stronger with magic.”

Stiles knows that she can read minds, and that it’s the only reason she's able to find just the right words to convince him, but he can't think of another way. Boston is too far, and it's not like he can find a wizard in the yellow pages, as much as he'd like to. He needs to save Theo, and he’ll find a way to save himself afterwards.

“Let's say I say yes, and I'm not yet, don't I need to be taught how to use magic?”

“Magic isn't as hard as wizards like to make it sound, but I will ask someone I trust to accompany you and help you.” The Queen snaps her fingers, and the caped probably-not-Fay appears from behind a tree. “This is Ada. She will go with you. She has no magic of her own but has been taught the theory. I will grant you one last question before the borders close again.”

Stiles thinks carefully. The deal seems sound as much as it can be, and the Queen told him that he could survive it. “Will I be able to tell my friends this time?”

“No. And since you have been very naughty with my secrets, you will agree to temporarily give up your voice. You won't talk or write about anything until your part is done.”

“Hey, that's not fair.”

“Do not talk about fairness after you betrayed the spirit of our previous agreement, if not its exact terms. Consider yourself lucky that I find you more useful with both your hands."

Stiles shivers. She's got a point, and to be honest, his words have failed him so many times in the past few days that he’s not even sure he will miss them. It’s not like he has anyone to talk to anyway.

“Your time is up, Mr. Stilinski. Do we have an agreement?”

On one hand, silence, magic, and taking on the Queen's enemies. And possibly, his own death. On the other, the guilt of not having saved Theo when he could have. Stiles can’t deal with any more guilt, and the Queen must have known it. Mind-reading really gives the upper hand in any negotiation. 

“We do,” he finally answers, the last of his words heavy on his tongue.

“Follow Ada, she will lead you home.”

He wants to ask her if she can do it without making him lost consciousness—it can't be good in the long term—but his lips are sealed. Literally. The Queen smiles coldly, and he shrugs. He can deal with this.

Morgan presses a finger on both their foreheads, and Stiles wakes up in the preserve, a weight on his ribs. Ada. She’s much heavier than she looks. He pushes her aside so he can sit up, and the movement wakes her up. Her first reaction is to readjust her hood, and only then she stands up with the grace of a gymnast. Stiles follows suit a bit more awkwardly.

“Well, that was uncomfortable way to travel, you were right about that.”

But Stiles has seen her in the human world before, so he frowns.

“I usually use doors, I’m not an animal,” she explains. “But the Queen has closed them all to keep Nyx in your realm. Didn’t you notice the storm?”

He did, actually, but the Fay had disappeared, and Derek was injured, and it all seems like it happened days ago, even though it was technically this morning. Anyway, he had no idea what it could have meant at the time, so he simply shrugs,

“Let’s go,” she says. “We don’t have all night.”

_Do you even know where you’re going?_ Stiles wants to ask, but his voice fails him. This will need some getting used to. Ada starts walking with confidence and he doesn’t have much choice, so he follows her steps. She seems to know the directions to Stiles’ house, because they soon reach his backyard. He leads her through the back door, and he almost runs to his room. He needs to be sure it’s not too late, and all the air leaves his lungs in relief when he sees Theo, his eyes closed and white as death, but still weakly breathing under his million blankets.

Melissa is sitting on the bed, her hand on his forehead, and Theo looks so small that Stiles knows he’s made the right decision by making a deal with the Queen: he needs to save him.

Melissa turns toward Stiles. “You should call your dad,” she says. She turns back to look at Theo, removes her hand from his forehead and instead lifts the covers to grab his wrist. “He and Derek are looking for you.” She presses her index and middle fingers on Theo’s wrist to take his pulse. His veins are dark against his pale skin. Melissa doesn’t seem to like what she finds out, because she shakes her head and draws the blankets again.

Then she turns toward Stiles again. “Well, don’t you have something to say for yourself? And who’s your friend?”

Stiles points to his lips and shakes his head. Melissa frowns, deep lines marking her forehead. None of them are getting any younger, but Melissa’s time among werewolves and other mythical creatures seems to have age her faster than she should have. Or maybe her age finally caught up with her.

“What happened? Matagot got your tongue?”

“Something like that,” Ada answers, and Stiles is thankful to her, for the first time since he’s met her. “My name is Ada. Stiles cannot talk at the moment. If he could, though, I’m sure he would be asking about his friend’s health.”

Melissa sighs. “I guess this is no sore throat and I don’t need to check?” Stiles shakes his head. “Well, that’s not even the strangest thing to happen today.” She sighs. “That would be Theo’s state. He’s getting colder and colder, and honestly, I’m not even sure how he’s still alive. Did you, by any chance, find out what’s wrong with him?”

Stiles nods excitedly and tries to copy the Queen’s gestures to explain Melissa about spirits sharing a body, but her frown only deepens, so he gives up.

“You know what?” Melissa says. “I’ll call your dad.” She nods to herself and exits the room after checking that the blankets cover every inch of Theo’s body.

Stiles starts planning. They need to go to the tunnels the Dread Doctors used, and for that, they need a car. If Derek and Stiles’ dad are gone, it means he can’t borrow theirs, and he doesn’t want to leave Melissa stranded if Theo worsens. Maybe he can Uber there? Are there even any Uber in Beacon Hills?

Well, first things first, he can’t travel through town with Ada looking like Aragorn in the Inn of the Prancing Pony. So he opens his old wardrobe and checks his high school clothes, all those jeans and stupid T-shirts and plaid shirts. They look ridiculous to him now, but he used to love them. These days, he wears a combination of dark dress pants and light button-up shirts, most of them blue, every single day. Lydia calls them his uniform, and she’s not far from the truth.

He picks the least baggy of his jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red hoodie, and offers them to Ada.

“What do you want me to do with that?” she asks almost accusingly.

Stiles rolls his eyes theatrically.

“You want me to change?”

He nods, and she sighs, taking the clothes. He leads her to the bathroom, and when she exits it, she looks much more human. The jeans are too big and she had to tie the waist with a silver link she must have had, and she’s pulled the hood so that it hides most of her face apart from her eyes, but it will have to do.

Back to the car problem. If only he still had the Jeep… but wait, he still owns it! It’s just dead, but it’s been waiting for a magical mechanic, and he now dabbles in both subjects. He’s not sure whether he’s worst at repairing cars or casting spells yet, but what better way to find out?

Stiles leads Ada to the garage and simply seeing his old car fills him with warmth. He remembers that time he saved the day by running over Jackson—a mind-controlled kanima at the time—, or the time he saved the day by running over a hunter, or the time when the car saved him by reminding Lydia of his existence.

He gets the key from his pocket. Apart from the few months it spent with Scott, he’s never been apart from it. He’s tied it to the same keychain as his current car’s—a boring Honda Civic, because yes, he’s become boring, even if he refuses to admit it aloud—because it’s a memento. Of his mother, and all the times she drove around to put him to sleep, and of his friends and all the adventures they’ve had together in the car.

“We are not going anywhere in this… _thing_ , are we?” Ada asks, almost spitting the words.

Stiles answers with an excited nod and a wide smile.

“It doesn’t look like it can take us very far.”

Stiles nods again with less energy, his smile faltering.

“It’s dead, isn’t it? Can cars die? Are they alive? I’m not sure how that works.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. This is neither the time, nor the place, nor the public to ask stupid questions.

“So what’s your plan, exactly?”

Stiles raises his hands, trying to mime casting a spell, but he’s rarely seen spells, and each magic user he’s met seems to have their own style, so he’s not really sure how. He scratches the back of his head, looking for a gesture that would make her understand.

Finally getting an idea, he points at her.

“Me?” she asks.

Then he mimes holding a book with one hand and turning its pages with the other.

“A book? I’m reading a book?”

Finally, he points at himself. It takes her an instant, but she finally gets it.

“You want me to teach you. Magic, I guess.”

He nods.

“To repair the dead car.”

He nods again.

“Okay. That’s… something we can do, why not.” She takes a big breath. “To use magic, to cast a spell, you need three things. One, insight. You need to understand what you’re trying to do. For example, you can’t fly without understanding physics and aerodynamics.”

That part is easy. He’s spent so much time repairing the Jeep and talking to its mechanic that he knows everything wrong with the car. The main problem is the transmission, which is toast, but then, most wearing parts need replacement, including the timing belt, and at some point, the cost became unbearable for Stiles.

“Two, focus. Most spell casters have a long experience of meditation which helps them reach their focus easily, but somehow, you don’t look like you’ve meditated a lot in your life.”

Stiles grimaces. Even though he’s improved a lot on a subject, staying focused more than a couple minutes without fidgeting is still impossible for him.

“Well, you’re going to have to find the required discipline if you want that pile of rust to start. If you don’t focus, your spell will at best not be cast, and at worst, misfire. That’s why you don’t meet that many battle mages, it’s just too dangerous for the caster.”

Stiles nods.

“And finally, three, intent. Once you know what you want to do, how you want to do it, and your mind is entirely focused on the task at hand, you will ignite the spell with your will. Which means that you cannot cast magic if you don’t really want it. For example, let’s say you’re trying to kill someone…”

Stiles scoffs, and it turns into a cough. What a terrible example.

“Can’t you be serious five minutes? If you don’t will it, if you don’t really want it with all your heart, the spell _will_ misfire, most likely killing you instead. The intent always seems like the easy part, but it’s not. Because insight and focus can be mastered, but any spell you cast can still injure or kill you if your will flails. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

_I really want to repair my car_ , he would like to answer, but instead he nods as sternly as he can.

“Good. Then let’s try it. Is there a small repair you could begin with? Like turning this door back to blue?”

Stiles glares at her. No, the driver’s door has always been black and it will remain black, just as his mom intended when she got the car repaired after someone ran a red and T-boned her. She could have had it repainted, but she never did, and he never will either.

Ada raises her hands as a peace offering. “Alright. What else then?”

Well, the brake drums could probably do with a bit less rust. That’s easy to understand. Now, he just needs to focus. He’s not sure how, but then he remembers Theo dying upstairs, and as he closes his eyes, he feels his chest get warm. He smiles to himself, because he understands something Ada didn’t teach: insight is knowing how, but intent is knowing why.

And right now, he does.


	10. Silence

Insight and intent are easy, and focus isn’t that bad, so Stiles easily gives a new youth to the brake drums, the ignition coil, and the spark plugs. For the transmission, he pulls his phone to look for schematics, just to make sure he remembers all the ins and outs, but he can’t type. He opens a browser, but it’s like the keyboard is a different alphabet entirely. The symbols look vaguely familiar; he just doesn’t know which ones he should be using to express his questions.

He slips the phone back into his pocket and instead opens the glovebox, which contains everything he’s ever needed to know to keep the car running. Most of it has been tape and percussive maintenance, but he’s still printed enough pages to build a Jeep encyclopedia.

It takes him a few minutes, but he finally locates the schematics. He slides under the car, using his phone as a light, and once he knows exactly what he’s doing, he presses his hand against the car and closes his eyes. He focuses on the repairs and why he needs the car, and then the door opens, he loses his focus entirely, and some car part falls on his leg.

He opens his mouth to shout the pain away, but no sounds make it out. He slides out of the car, rubbing his leg, to see that Melissa has entered the room.

“Stop disappearing like that, Stiles,” she scolds, and then she realizes where they are, and she scowls. “You’re not thinking of going anywhere in this… deadly device, are you?”

Stiles wants to answer, but he can’t, so he looks expectantly at Ada.

“We are,” Ada says. “We’re almost finished repairing it.”

“The car is dead, it’s not leaving this garage, and the two of you are not going anywhere until your dad is back, young man.”

Stiles points at his room and then taps the imaginary watch on his wrist.

“We have to go now,” Ada translates. “Theo doesn’t have much time and we need to pick up something that will heal him.”

“You really know how to save him?” There’s hope in Melissa’s voice, the hope of someone who’s seen the impossible, both the good and the bad, and still wants to believe there’s more.

“Yes. You should stay by his side, keep him warm, it will help.”

Melissa turns to Stiles, silently asking for his confirmation, and he nods.

“Be careful,” she says before leaving the room, closing the door behind. Once they can’t hear her steps anymore, Ada scoffs.

“It’s not going to make much of a difference either way, but we need you focused. Get back to work.”

Stiles does, and maybe ten minutes later—or maybe an hour or two, he doesn’t have a watch—the car is ready to go. Or so he hopes. He opens the garage door and they both climb into the Jeep.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ada whines.

And somehow, he can feel the car’s happiness. The wheel feels warm under his hands and he caresses it, remembering the feeling of driving it, and the car even smells like it used to, before all the abuse it suffered, like leather and that cream Stiles’ mom used on the seats to make them all shiny.

He puts the key in the ignition, and even though he knows the car will start, hearing it purr is still a lovely surprise. He smiles as he rolls down to the street. Ada is holding the seat with all her might, her fingers white, and Stiles’ smile deepens as he accelerates, not even reaching the speed limit. It’s funny to see her squirm for once. And then he remembers Theo and ignores his affection for the car and Ada’s screaming as he puts his foot down.

It takes them a fifteen minute drive followed by a ten minute walk to reach the tunnel’s entrance, and five more minutes to get completely lost in them.

“You don’t know where you’re going, do you?” Ada sighs.

Stiles shrugs.

“All right. The alchemists used refined magic in their concoctions. You just need to use yours to locate their lab through that magic’s residue.”

Great. Stiles grimaces. He doesn’t have the glimpse of the beginning of an idea of how to do that.

“Find a comfortable position. Sit if you want to.”

Stiles isn’t sure he can feel comfortable anywhere in the tunnels where they’ve been attacked so many times, but he indulges her and sits cross-legged on the ground. Ada kneels by his side.

“Good. Now I want you to focus on an image. It will sound strange, but just relax and imagine a sphere in your chest. It’s warm, and soft, and it feels safe. Close your eyes if you need.”

When Stiles’ mom was in the hospital, she often read women’s magazines when she had nothing else, and she had a love-hate relationship with them, in that she loved hating the personality tests and the parapsychology bullshit. Ada’s words would have made her laugh so much.

Then again, Ada is his only magic teacher, and her first lesson didn’t go so bad, so he closes his eyes and imagines a sphere. At first, he feels stupid, but then he can see it, even though his eyes are closed. It’s black but emits white light so bright it’s blinding. Surprised, he opens his eyes, and he’s sure it’s only willful imagination. But Ada raises an eyebrow and he closes his eyes back and the sphere is there.

“Now, you’re going to take a big breath and hold it, and as you do, the sphere will become smaller and smaller. Try it a few times.”

Stiles inhales, and as he does, the sphere goes from the size of a melon to that of a pomegranate, and it’s even brighter, as if ready to explode with light. As he exhales, the sphere grows bigger for a second before regaining its normal size. He does it a second time, and a third, and a few more after that, until he makes the sphere big as a cherry and brighter than the sun.

“You’re doing good. Now, as you breathe out, try to let it expand as much as it wants. It may take a few tries, but then you will feel a pull as your magic reaches theirs.”

Stiles isn’t sure how long it takes, but he can soon feel the sphere expand to fill the entire tunnel and spread into the walls. He doesn’t know how the pull is supposed to feel until he feels it, and then it’s obvious. It’s like some energy that left the sphere found a magnet, and escaping its attraction makes it harder to come back.

He opens his eyes and stands up, running in that direction, Ada on his heel, but the pull disappears with his focus. So every ten meters, he sits back down and starts the whole process again, a bit quicker each time. The fourth time, he finally reaches the Dread Doctors’ operating theater.

He shivers when looking at the chairs where Chimeras were tied for the Doctors’ experiments and the red tiles that probably weren’t that red to begin with. He thinks of Hayden and Corey—and hell, even Theo— tortured and killed and resurrected. He needs to find what they came looking for and get out of here before he sets it all on fire. He’s not sure why nobody did it before. Maybe they could make it some team building with Theo when he’s better, he would probably love that.

The pull comes from what looks like a solid wall, but he can’t see any path leading behind it. He presses his hand on the stone and closes his eyes, focusing once more on his magic, and after a few breaths, he’s certain there’s a pocket dug in the wall. It’s not big, smaller than his old locker at school, and crudely made, but that’s where whatever they’re looking for is located.

Insight, focus, intent. What is he trying to do? He could destroy that part of the wall, or simply put his hand through it, or teleport the pocket’s content to the other side. Honestly, the most easily understandable way is sheer destruction, so that’s what he focuses on. Now that he’s felt his magic, focus is even easier. He pulls Theo’s image in his mind, his pallor and his shattered breathing, to remember why he’s casting this spell, and then he lets his magic slip between the cracks of the stone, and with all his will, pulls him back to his core.

He opens his eyes again, and the stone has barely cracked.

“Don’t try to use your magic as a tool,” Ada comments. “Focus on the result and not the means. Forget about the sphere image, it won’t help you right now.”

But it’s hard to push back the thought of the sphere now that he sees it. He pinches his lips and closes his eyes again, focusing this time on the image of a hole in the wall. He wills it into existence and flinches when a loud noise gets him out of his focus. Ada coughs next to him and his eyes open wide. The air is filled with dust and there’s a hole big as his fist in the wall. He smiles widely. Of course, he wanted it to be bigger, but since there’s no stone on the ground and dust everywhere, he’s apparently vaporized part of the wall, and how could he not be proud of that?

Ada has turned her back and is still coughing when he slips his hand into the wall. He was right, there is a pocket, and it’s deeper than he’d thought. He lets his fingers wander, but even when his elbow gets stuck at the hole, he cannot touch the back. He finds a couple notebooks, which he pulls out, but he knows there’s something else, something imbued with more magic even.

Ada has finally stopped coughing and looks at the notebooks over his shoulder.

“Good. Now let’s go. This place is creepy.”

Stiles shakes his head, then points at her, and then at the wall.

“You want me to put my hand in _that_?”

He nods, and she sighs, but obeys. Her elbow gets stuck just as his did, but she doesn’t give up. She opens the hoodie’s zipper and removes the piece of clothing, leaving her in Stiles’ long-sleeved T-shirt. She gives him the sweater, and he sees her whole face for the first time.

She looks about his age and is pretty cute. Her features are softer, rounder than the other Fay he’s met. Her skin is darker than the Queen’s, but not much, and her eyes look even lighter in contrast.

“What? Is there something wrong with my face?” she accuses.

He shakes his head. Why had he been convinced that there would be? Because she hid her face from him for days. What could have changed that she now shows it with so little hesitation?

Ada puts her hand in the hole again, this time up to her shoulder, and she extracts three vials in as many trips. The first one is empty, unfortunately. The second one contains a dark liquid emitting a soft green light. The third one is broken, and dried green serum covers the glass. Shit.

“It’s empty. Do you need anything else here?”

He shakes his head, and she takes the hoodie back.

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

But of course, they’re still lost, and Stiles cannot use the notebook’s magic pull to get them out. They walk aimlessly for a while, and he checks his phone every thirty seconds. If Theo dies while they’re lost in the stupid tunnels, it will all have been for nothing. Well, nothing and a magically repaired Jeep… Wait, the Jeep, of course! He’s poured so much magic in it that he’s sure it will get a pull too. Except they’re parked a few hundred yards from the entrance, and he’s not sure he’s got enough control yet to locate the car.

Still, he tries. He sits down without a warning, prompting a snort from Ada, before she understands what he’s trying to do and remains silent. He focuses on making the sphere even smaller than before, but he’s so impatient to breathe some fresh air that he overextends his reach too fast. At least, that’s what he thinks he’s done wrong, because he finds himself lying on the ground, feeling like he’s falling even though he’s pressed against cold stone, and holding the first thing he finds for dear life.

The first thing he finds happens to be Ada’s ankle.

“Let go!” But he can’t, because even though he technically knows he’s not falling, the information has not reached the reptilian part of his brain. He’s never felt dizzy like this before. He vaguely notices Ada kneeling by his side and giving him her hand to hold.

“Too much too fast?” she asks, and he nods, regretting the movement instantly. “Overusing magic has many side effects. Coldness, fatigue, tremors, headaches, and vertigo are mild ones, but it goes to debilitating migraines, seizures, and death.”

Well, that escalated quickly. Thankfully, he is still in the first bracket, but he has to remember this for later.

“Well, this won’t heal you, but it should at least help. This is a very temporary solution that you should only use on mild symptoms, alright? You need to use your magic to contain the damage it’s done.”

Very ironic, and it sounds like a really bad idea, but right now, Stiles can barely remember how to breath and there’s no way he can stand, let alone drive. Also, it’s the only idea they have.

“Like before, you need to understand what you’re trying to solve. You used too much magic and your body is telling you to stop. You need to convince your body that you’re fine, at least temporarily. So focus on that, on alleviating those side effects—tremors and vertigo I suppose?”

Stiles nods weakly.

“Imagine yourself healthy, walking toward the exit. And then, will it with all your might.”

So he does. He forces himself to let go of Ada’s ankle, because he’s fine and it must be quite uncomfortable for her. He wills himself to stand, and then he’s back on his feet, even though Ada’s helped by putting his arm around her shoulders. He staggers for a couple steps, and then he pours every inch of intent he still has into walking normally.

He lets Ada take part of his weight and guide him as he closes his eyes. He focuses on his magic as he walks, seeing the black sphere in his mind. He goes very slowly this time, even though it’s hard not to rush. Somehow, walking helps with focus. He’s used to the nervous energy he can never entirely release, but not forcing himself to stay immobile helps a lot.

After agonizingly long minutes, he finally allows himself to extend his magic, even slower than the first time, until he finally feels the car. It’s not like a magnet, this time, it’s like a warm fireplace after walking for hours in the snow. It’s not drawing him against his will, it’s merely offering comfort within his reach.

And so at the next intersection, he pulls Ada left and she follows. There’s something comforting in knowing the layout of the tunnels; it’s almost like having a video game mini-map in his mind. He knows he shouldn’t abuse it, but he sees himself experimenting with this new superpower in the future.

He soon leads them to the tunnel’s entrance and he doesn’t have to open his eyes to know they’re almost out. He feels it. Also, he can hear the wind outside, but _feeling_ it is much more badass. He lets go of Ada and walks with his own strength to the car, the not-fairy on his heels.

“You did good,” she says, her voice softer than he’s ever heard it. “After your friend is healed, you should take it easy for a little while. Sleep, eat, meditate if you can.”

He chuckles silently. Him, meditating.

“Alright, go for a walk, or whatever you do when you need to wind down.” And then, as if she suddenly remembers she’s not supposed to be nice, she justifies herself on a harsh tone: “Nyx will not go easy on you simply because you’re tired.”

Sitting at the wheel with the car doing its best to warm his frozen bones, he almost feels okay and slowly removes the image of himself healthy from his mind. Without the spell, he’s dizzy again, but nothing that will keep him from driving. He will need all the magic he can muster to pour into Theo’s serum.

When they turn left on his street, he sees his dad and Derek standing in front of the garage door, the first one in uniform, the second one crossing his arms. He parks in the driveway but hesitates before leaving the security of the Jeep. He wants to ask how Theo is, because he wants to know, of course, but also to bypass the two men’s inevitable reproaches. He can’t, though.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door. Ada gives him the notebooks and the vials, which he holds onto as protection, before exiting the car. He follows suit and stands before his father like a six-year old caught stealing cookies.

The Sheriff sighs. “Did you at least find something to help Theo?”

Stiles nods and shows him the notebooks.

“You really can’t talk?” Derek asks. “I was pretty sure Melissa was only exaggerating.”

Stiles shrugs, because there are two questions in there with opposite answers.

“You know,” Stiles’ dad says, “I wished a few times for this to happen. But somehow, it’s not as relaxing as I thought it would be. Anyway, we’ll talk later; Melissa doesn’t think Theo has that long.”

Stiles enters the house, the others on his heel, and he goes to his room. Theo’s breathing is even weaker, almost imperceptible. Melissa is still by his side, but she’s not doing anything. There’s nothing she can do anymore. Stiles presses his hand on her shoulder as a silent reassurance and she smiles sadly at him before turning back her attention to Theo.

Stiles goes back to the living room, giving one of the notebooks to Derek and looking into the other. Most of it is written in a mixture of what he thinks is Latin and French, and he can’t read it. A look at Derek, his brow tight in concentration, and he’s pretty sure they will need help. But how can he tell his friend they need Lydia, Mason, and probably that Inès girl?

He takes his phone in his pocket, opens the music app, and looks for a song in his library. When he’s found it, he taps on Derek’s shoulder. The werewolf raises his head without a word, and Stiles plays _Find my way back_ , hoping he remembers.

“Why are you… That’s your ringtone. You want me to call someone.”

Stiles nods.

“Lydia. That was her calling then.”

Stiles nods again, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“I’ll call her.”

While he does, Stiles thinks of a way of telling Derek to call Mason. He doesn’t have a photo of him in his phone, but he does have an adorable picture of Scott holding an entire litter of cocker puppies, his eyes closed and his mouth open with a laugh as one of the dogs licks his cheek.

Once Derek hangs up, Stiles shows him the picture. The werewolf is apparently immune to the cuteness of it all.

“I think Scott is busy taking care of the others we’ve rescued.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and points at the puppies.

“Oh. You want me to call a puppy. Not Liam, I guess. Mason?”

Stiles nods.

“I think we should also call Isaac and Inès. I don’t know what those notebooks are, but mine’s in French.”

He nods again, because his repertoire is quite limited at the moment, and looks as Derek exits the room to make the calls.

The first notebook contains a few drawings, but the Dread Doctors clearly never won prizes for their art, and they’re not really helpful. Stiles tries the translation app on his phone, but it cannot decipher the spidery writing.

As he reaches blindly for the second notebook, he jerks as his hand touches someone else’s. Ada’s, of course. She silently sat by his side on the couch and he’s so exhausted he didn’t notice. She’s reading the second notebook and he tears it from her hand. He doesn’t trust her. Unfortunately, the old paper cannot withstand the rough treatment and the page she was holding rips.

“I was reading that,” she says.

Yes, and that’s the whole issue. Ada doesn’t need to know more about the Dread Doctors’ experiments, and she certainly shouldn’t bring back any ideas to the Queen. Stiles doesn’t think Morgan would stoop so low as to continue their research, but as she doesn’t consider humans as anything but an inconvenience, he isn’t so sure.

“Who’s Marie-Jeanne?” she asks, and his eyes widen in surprise. He didn’t expect that name. Allison’s ancestor. “Oh, right, you can’t answer. Shame,” she adds, sounding very unmoved by the fact.

Derek comes back into the room and glares at Ada, who ignores him entirely, crossing her ankles on the coffee table.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he growls. “Or whatever brought you here.”

Ada smiles, dimples forming at the corners of her mouth. “Does he think he’s scary?” she asks Stiles.

Derek pushes her feet down with one hand, his eyes shining blue. “I do.”

“Blue eyes.” She doesn’t sound very impressed. “For one moment I thought you were the alpha.” She puts her feet back on the table, her heels thudding against the wood as she crosses her heels. Stiles notices her shoes for the first time and realizes they’re his old Converses and quite a few sizes too big for her feet. He frowns, unsure why she couldn’t keep hers. She must have had shoes when she walked the forest with him.

“You haven’t answered my question.” Derek’s face is made of hard lines, his teeth clenched.

“You still haven’t asked one.”

Stiles chuckles. He’s not the only who’s noticed Derek’s lack of love for the question mark. Ada casts him a conniving smile, which he doesn’t appreciate, and Derek a dark stare, which he doesn’t like much more.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?”

Ada bites down a very Fay-like smile, still unimpressed. “My name’s Ada. I was sent here to help Stiles in his quest to save his friend.”

“Sent by who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Derek grabs her by the front of Ada’s hoodie—well, Stiles’, but who’s counting—and pulls her to her feet, before slamming her into the wall. “Yes I would.”

“I’m not at liberty to say. And my employer is a bit scarier than you, no offense.”

“You work for the Seelie Queen.”

“What don’t you understand in ‘not at liberty to say?’”

“It was not a question.” He releases her and she falls gracefully to her feet, as if she’d been the master of the situation all along. She brushes a fold on her sleeve, and before she can regain her place on the couch, Derek sits next to Stiles.

“Since you seem so big on introduction, who are you?”

“I’m Derek. And let’s make things clear, no one here trusts you, so you’re welcome to skulk in the corner of the room, but you’re not reading those journals, understood?”

Stiles beams, feeling vindicated. It’s nice to hear his words from another’s mouth. The feeling passes quickly, as Derek turns to glare at him.

“You and I are going to have a talk afterwards. And since you can’t actually talk, maybe for once you’ll listen.”

Stiles pulls his shoulders up as to hide like a scolded child and grimaces at the werewolf.

They’re still in that strange Mexican standoff when Lydia arrives, Derek pretending to read one of the notebooks while keeping an eye on Ada, busy braiding and un-braiding her hair, unconcerned by the whole situation.

Derek updates Lydia on the situation and she starts browsing the first notebook, her eyes straining in concentration.

“What are we looking for, exactly?”

Stiles opens his mouth to answer, but his words get stuck in his throat. Ada is still playing with her hair, and he throws a pillow at her to get her attention. She catches it in the air without even looking.

“Oh?” she asks. “Am I allowed to interact with the rest of the room now?”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“We’re looking for the serum recipe.”

“The green thing they injected to the chimeras?” Lydia asks. “That’s disgusting.”

“Only way to save your friend, but if it’s not proper enough for you…”

Lydia sends Ada her meanest smile and keeps reading, mumbling about how rusty her French is, until Isaac, Inès and Mason arrive. The two women start chatting in French, while Derek joins Stiles on the couch of people who chose Spanish back in high school, and Isaac lingers between the two groups.

“So apparently, my French isn’t as rusty as I thought,” Lydia finally tells them, after what seems like awkward hours waiting in silence. “It’s written in a mixture of French, Latin, and a local patois based on _occitan_. Thankfully, Inès has a better understanding than I do, and I think we’ve found the recipe.”

Inès catches her attention. “ _Je ne suis pas sûre de ma traduction. Des cavaliers fantômes ?_ ”

“Ghost riders,” Lydia translates. “Of course it had to be ghost riders.”

“What do you need?” Derek asks.

Lydia examines the notebook more closely. “Venom, I think?”

Stiles’ eyes open wide. That’s what is in the vial they’ve found, the unbroken one. He takes it from his pocket and gives it to Lydia. Their fingers touch, just for one second, but she jolts as if burned. She doesn’t scream this time, but she sends him a pale smile and carefully takes the vial. She shakes her head.

“Good. Now, Inès has most of the ingredients, but we will need werewolf blood.”

“ _Et de la magie_ ,” Inès adds.

“And magic,” Lydia translates. “More than Inès has.”

So she does have magic. Interesting.

“What about Deaton?” Derek asks.

“Not the right kind of magic, apparently,” Lydia answers. “I’m not sure about the details, but druidic magic is tied to nature and it won’t mix properly with the unnatural ingredients we’re using. We’ll need a witch, but the only one I know is in Boston.”

That’s Stiles’ cue, and he needs to show them that he can do magic. Light is easy to understand, so he focuses on the image of a ball of light in his hand, just like the Queen did. And then, he wills it into existence. And the entire room turns to him.

“Okay,” Isaac says calmly. “I’ve definitely missed a lot in the last eight years.”

“Well,” Lydia adds. “I guess I’ve missed a lot in the last eight _hours_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had that great idea when I was writing this story to use the best Stiles sentence in the chapter as the title. Didn't think this through apparently, especially since Stiles was always supposed to lose his voice at some point. Well, lesson learned for the next story, but I like some of the chapter titles too much to change them.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	11. I begin and have no end

Stiles loves Lydia, always have, always will, but he’s glad he’s not the one having to follow her instructions to prepare the serum. Mason’s morbid curiosity at the preparation that turned him into the Beast of Gévaudan barely keeps him focused and calm as it is.

Stiles’ leg is furiously shaking until Derek stops him with a firm hand on his knee. He starts biting his thumb instead.

“Let’s get some air,” Derek tells him, his voice only loud enough for the two of them to hear. Lydia, Mason and Inès are far too focused on the serum to care anyway. Derek stands up and Stiles follows him, preparing himself for the inevitable scolding for going to the Queen again. He still prefers that to waiting while listening to Inès muttering in French, Lydia translating dryly, and Mason asking for clarifications.

Derek sits on the porch, his elbows resting on his knees, and Stiles slides against the post sideways so he can face his friend. He needs to, if he wants to express anything. They don’t talk for a while, and Stiles enjoys the silence for once. He also enjoys not sharing a room with Ada, who for some reason has given him the creeps ever since he realized she stole his shoes. That sounds stupid, even for him, that in the grand scheme of things, borrowing ten-year old Converses he hasn’t worn since high school is the last straw.

“I understand why you’re angry with me,” Derek suddenly says, his voice low, “but I wish you trusted me more than the Seelie Queen.” He sighs, looking at his hands.

Stiles wants to answer, to tell him that he still trusts him, mostly, and that he would not have taken the Queen’s deal if there had been any other way to save Theo in time, but he can’t. Instead, he sets a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and even though he only planned to squeeze it, he finds himself staying like that. Derek doesn’t move, doesn’t react, and Stiles takes it as a good sign.

“Is this a _Little mermaid_ deal? Your voice for magic?”

Two questions in one go? Derek must feel really lost. Stiles shakes his head, taking his hand back, because he doesn’t know what kind of signals he’s sending, and he’s not sure what kind of signals he wants to be sending anyway.

“The voice is punishment for telling me about her.”

Stiles nods slowly. It’s not Derek’s fault, it’s his own for thinking himself cleverer than the Seelie Queen. How stupid was he? Losing his voice is all he deserves. She’s older than anyone he knows; hell, she’s older than the printing press, mathematics, and probably even the whole concept of calendar. Why was he so cocky? He’s always been confident in his abilities, but…

“Hey, what’s happening in that thick head of yours?”

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes it. Lots of things are happening in his thick head right now, none of them good, none of them helping. He puts his hands on the ground and pushes himself up. He needs to wash his face, it will keep his thoughts from looping on his guilt. If he can hold it together until the serum is finished, he’ll allow himself to curl into a ball under his blankets and cry himself, hopefully, to sleep.

He closes the bathroom door behind and opens the tap, letting it run until the water is as cold as it will get. He splashes his face and looks at it in the mirror. His skin is almost translucid, his eyes are bloodshot, making the bags under them even darker. Shit, he looks like the Nogitsune. His hands start shaking and he grabs the washstand as tight as he can.

Everything’s fine. He just needs to breathe. He looks around, trying to find something, anything else to focus on. There’s a tidy pile of clothing on the laundry hamper that belongs to Ada. He doesn’t want it here, he doesn’t want it in the house, he wants to burn it, but not here. He grabs it, but his hands are still shaking too much, and the cape unfolds, freeing the dress it contains and letting it fall to the ground.

The dress is white and made of muslin. There are no shoes in the pile.

Ada took his Converses because she was barefoot.

It’s obvious now: Ada is Allison’s ghost.

Which means that there’s no ghost.

Which means that it’s only ever been his guilt.

Fuck.

He laughs mechanically, but not sound comes out of his mouth. The cape slips from his fingers, and then so does his sanity. He falls on the floor, his back resting against the tub, his knees against his chest. The laugh turns into a sob, and he’s not even sure why he’s crying. There’s no ghost, he’s not haunted, he should be happy.

There’s a knock at the door, soon followed by Derek’s voice. “I’m coming in.”

Stiles wants to be alone, but he can’t tell Derek no, because he’s so stupid that he thought he could outsmart Morgan Le Fay. Instead, he wipes the tears with his sleeve, swallows the sobs, and stands up shakily, pushing himself against the tub.

The door opens and Derek comes in. Stiles has been a burden enough and doesn’t want to be anymore, so he takes the dress and the cape, and he slips by his friend. He rushes in the living room, where Ada has been waiting by herself. With each step, his confusion and relief and hysterics turn into red anger. He makes a ball out of the dress before throwing it at Ada.

She looks at him, her eyes wide in surprise. “What?”

And he’s got so many things he wants to tell her, so much that he’s not sure words would be enough, but he doesn’t have any, and she looks at him as if she doesn’t know what she’s done.

“You smell like rain,” Derek growls. He’s gathered the dress and is looking at it with disgust. “You’re the ghost.”

“I’m the what now?” Ada really doesn’t seem to realize she’s been haunting Stiles for days, and he feels weak, because no one was tormenting him but his own guilt, making him see what it wanted him to see.

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice softer, but not by much. “Tell me I’m right.”

Stiles nods, his face like a porcelain mask, cold and emotionless.

“You’ve been following him ever since he came back to Beacon Hills.”

“I have,” Ada admits easily. “The Queen asked me to keep an eye on him. But I’m no ghost.”

“You’ve been dressing like one.”

“This? It’s just a dress. Pretty fashionable by Fay standards.”

“You look like her.”

“Whoever you’re talking about, it can’t possibly be my fault, can it?”

And Stiles has to admit she’s right, so he puts a hand on Derek’s bicep to pull him back, not sure it will have any effect. Much to his surprise, the werewolf looks at him, and he must see something because he stands down.

“I still don’t like you,” Derek adds before exiting the room. She doesn’t seem to care much.

Stiles is still shaking by the time they get back to the kitchen, where Mason is adding one last ingredient under Lydia’s close supervision. The serum is green, but it doesn’t emit light like the Dread Doctors’ did. Lack of magic, Stiles thinks.

Once Lydia and Inès give their seal of approval, everyone turns to Stiles expectantly, and he puts his hand over the preparation.

Insight. He takes a deep breath in and closes his eyes. Well, he has no idea how the serum is supposed to work. The Queen said it would give Theo balance, but how? Is it binding Theo’s spirits together? Is it weakening them until they cannot fight together? Is it mellowing them until they cooperate? All of the above, none of it?

He opens his eyes again and grimaces. Inès smiles softly and comes by his side. She takes his hand in hers, turns it so it is palm up, and Stiles can see he’s still shaking despite her hold.

“Magic is like water,” she says, her accent hard and flat, which doesn’t suit her soft voice at all. “’Ave you seen your magic yet?”

Stiles nods.

“Good. Imagine it’s in a bowl. Like for a red fish.”

“Goldfish,” Lydia corrects.

Stiles closes his eyes and focuses on the image Inès has described. He easily feels his magic’s warmth this time. The hardest is actually to get rid of the goldfish.

“Move the bowl slowly, and the water inside will slide from side to side.”

He does it, waves of magic reaching the top of the bowl with each breath.

“The bowl spills and water… Lydia, how do you say _couler_?”

“Flow.”

“Water flows along your arm and into your palm. Then, you just have to let it go.”

But letting it go is the hardest part, because Stiles’ magic doesn’t want to leave his body. Or maybe, he doesn’t want it to leave. So he focuses on his breathing and pulls to mind Theo’s white face and his weak breathing, and he wills his magic to pour into the serum.

He can feel the warmth leaving his core, slipping along his arm and pouring from his hand. He opens his eyes, thinking that he will actually see his magic flow, but there’s only his hand, held open and unsteady. The serum, though, is now emitting light. He’s not sure when to stop, he’s not sure how to stop, and his hand is now shaking so badly he’s wondering how he’s still standing.

And then he’s not. He’s on the floor, his entire body trembling as if it’s the only thing keeping it alive, and he doesn’t know where is up or down, and he can’t breathe, and there are black spots in his vision, and he’s falling even though he’s not, and he’s dying.

He wants to hold on to something, anything to keep him grounded, but he can’t control his hands. They won’t obey his mind. His hands aren’t his own. _His hands aren’t his own._ It’s a nightmare, and he needs to wake up. He refuses to close his eyes, but there’s too much movement, too much light, too much everything, and they do by themselves.

Then it’s pitch dark, and there’s a hot breath against Stiles’ cheek. “I begin and have no end,” a familiar voice whispers in his ear, “and end all that begins. What am I?”

He opens his eyes. He’s lying on nothing in an entirely black world, and as he tries to push himself upright, a firm hand on his chest keeps him down. Its owner’s face is much too close for Stiles to see it, but he doesn’t need to. The white muslin dress is enough to recognize Ada, sitting on his chest, pushing him down with monstrous strength in one hand. He can’t move one inch.

She sits upright, her long chocolate curls caressing his face as she does, and when he finally sees her face, it’s bandaged. “Come on Stiles, you must know that one,” she says, her voice raspy. “I begin and have no end, and I end all that begins. What am I?”

But he doesn’t know, and he can’t think. He wants to scream, he wants to push her away, he wants to wake up, but he can’t. He’s frozen in place, entirely under her control, because he’s weak. Because he’s always been weak.

He wasn’t strong enough to protect himself from the Nogitsune, and people died. Sam, from the station, who taught him how to do long division. Sandra, from the hospital, who bought him a chocolate bar from the vending machine after his mother screamed at him that he wasn’t her son. Aiden, who for once had tried to do the right thing.

And Allison. Pure-hearted Allison, who only wanted to protect him. Strong Allison, who killed a demon with a simple arrow. Clever Allison, who helped save him even beyond death.

And now, the Nogitsune is back, all because he was weak again. Stiles knows he cannot lose any more than he’s already lost. He can’t possibly bear it.

“I begin and have no end,” Ada says again, her voice harsher and harsher, “and I end all that begins.”

Still pushing on his chest with her left hand, she begins unravelling the bandage hiding her face with the right one.

“What am I?” she grates.

He doesn’t want to see what’s underneath the gauze, he’s terrified of what will happen when he does. And once the last length of it is on the ground and she raises her head to put it in the light, he screams. Not sound exits his lips, but he still screams, and he can’t stop.

Because it’s not Ada’s face he sees. It’s Allison’s.

“I’ve known you smarter than that, Stiles. It’s an easy one, that riddle. You must know the answer.”

She’s smiling with all the hate Allison has never shown, but Stiles understands. She’s dead because of him, of course she hates him with all her guts. He would probably hate her if their roles were reversed, but then again, he’s a vindictive asshole, always have been.

Her eyes are the coldest blue, but Allison’s eyes aren’t blue. Chris’ are, Victoria’s were, but Allison had warm brown eyes. This is not Allison. Just like that, the illusion shatters, and she loses her strength, just a little, just enough for Stiles to push her away. She never stops smiling.

“I begin and have no end, and end all that begins.” she asks again, almost shouting it this time. “What am I?”

She stands up and walks around him in circles, like a predator with her prey, but Stiles is no prey. He doesn’t have to be weak. He pushes himself up, even though there’s no ground here, and even though it takes every last bit of strength he still has. Once on his feet, he feels whole again, his fear mended enough for him to take her.

“You really don’t know?” she snarls.

He shakes his head in return, because he is not playing her games. He wishes he had a go board to throw to her face, it would make the whole thing much more dramatic.

“Death,” she finally answers, her voice echoing in the void. _Death._ Death. **DEATH.** “I am Death, Stiles, and you have finally come to me.” Her voice is back to a whisper, like a secret shared between friends, like a confession only meant for him.

All semblance of strength disappears, and Stiles shatters into a million pieces. So that’s where he is. He’s dead, and this is hell. Lydia warned him, but he couldn’t listen to her, could he? He was too cocky for that. That’s apparently the theme of his last few days. And Allison will be there for all eternity, reminding him of his biggest failure. She’s a demon tormenting him, and she will never stop. And the truth is, he deserves it, because he’s failed her, because he’s failed everyone.

He falls to his knees, his hands limp by his sides. If that’s what shall be, then he accepts it. At least maybe Theo is alive. At least, he’s done everything he could for his friend. At least, the chimera won’t join the ranks of the guilt and the regrets that will punish him for all eternity.

And then he thinks of his father, without any family left, and Lydia, who will have to clean his stuff from their apartment, and Scott, who will need to find another best man for his wedding, and Derek, who still hasn’t read the _Dresden Files_ , and whatever remains of his mind turns into cutting shards, breaking everything.

He’s tears and blood, and then he wakes up. He sits upright and takes the biggest breath he can, but it’s shallow, so shallow. He’s covered in cold sweat and shivering, because he’s freezing, even though he’s covered with blankets.

“Stiles,” a firm voice says.

He turns to locate the person who’s just talked, and it takes him an instant to even recognize his father sitting by his side. When he does, though, he throws himself into his father’s arms and hugs him as tight as he can. Stiles is very weak and the shaking doesn’t help, so his father’s embrace is actually what keeps him seated.

Stiles buries his face into his father’s shoulder and cries. The Sheriff murmurs words he can’t possibly understand and rocks him slowly, until he’s steady enough. He lies back down, noticing he’s in his father’s room. The shutters are open, bathing the room in the soft morning light. He’s safe. He’s not dead.

“You’re okay, kiddo. You overexerted yourself, according to Inès and Deaton. They’re preparing something that will help, but in the meantime, you need to rest, okay?”

Stiles draws a shaky breath, and then points in the direction of his own room.

“Theo’s better. He woke up a bit ago; he ate some leftovers and complained about nobody noticing he was missing in the first place.”

Stiles melts in relief, all his muscles relaxing at the same time. The Sheriff squeezes Stiles’ hand.

“He’ll thank you in his own time,” he adds with a knowing smile. Then, his face becomes serious. “This was a good thing you did, but it was also really stupid. You could have killed yourself, and I can’t lose you too, okay? So whatever the deal is with magic and—honestly, I can’t follow anymore. I thought I had a tight grip on all this stuff after these last few years, but I’m not sure I do anymore.” He sighs. “Anyway, promise me you’ll keep the magic under wrap until Deaton and Inès have come up with whatever they’re coming up with, alright?”

Stiles nods. He doesn’t need magic anymore, anyway, he’s done what he had to and Theo’s alive. Now, he just wants to sleep for a few days.

“Look, I really have to go to work now. We’re still managing the aftermath of your little intervention at the subway station. But if you need anything, I’m leaving you a bell. Ring it and someone will come. The house is full of people, don’t worry, I’m not leaving you by yourself.”

Stiles doesn’t care much. He just needs to rest, and he falls back asleep before his father exits the room.

He’s woken up from his dreamless slumber by soft voices just outside the door. He’s alone in the room, and he feels the walls moving. He counts his fingers, but he can still hear Allison’s voice. _I am Death, Stiles._ Still ten fingers, but he can feel her presence. Not in the room, but inside himself. _And you have finally come to me._ She’s all the rage and the guilt and the pain he’s ever felt. She’s the terror that’s never really left.

He focuses on the moment. His hands are his own, and that matters more than anything. His chest hurts, but he breathes with no constraint. He tries to listen to the voices behind the door, trusting them to somehow erase the nightmare, but he can’t really hear the words, and he wishes he could. And then he does.

“What are we supposed to do?” Lydia’s voice asks. “Every time we solve one problem, we seem to create another one. First Malia, then Theo, and now Stiles.”

“Right now,” Derek’s low voice answers, “we have to trust that Deaton and Inès know what they’re doing. It should keep Stiles’ magic grounded for a couple days, and we’ll take care of it after the wedding.”

“Right, the wedding. What do we tell Scott?”

“Nothing. I texted him that Theo was okay, he doesn’t need to know more right now. He would cancel the wedding, and we can deal with it.”

“Alright,” Lydia answers on a tone that says the opposite.

“Hey.” Derek’s voice softens. “It’s gonna be alright. He died, but he’s back. He’s back.”

Stiles died. Allison was really the Nogitsune, ready to torment him forever. The thought is terrifying, and he intends on never renewing the experience. Or at least, in a hundred years or something.

“There were no flames,” Lydia argues.

“Maybe your vision was symbolic. You saw him enclosed in the flames of his own magic. Which you couldn’t possibly understand, since he did not have magic then.”

“Yeah. Fairy deals… when did we get involved in fairy deals?”

“Don’t include me in that. That was all Stiles, I’m completely innocent.”

She chuckles, more of relief than of amusement. “Can you check on him? Inès might need translation; her English’s not too bad, but she lacks a lot of vocabulary.”

“Sure.”

Stiles pulls himself up, trying to sit, but not able to. He’s better, but he’s still so cold he fears he’ll shatter at the first touch, and the slightest move causes a surge of pain in his head. At least, most of the shivering comes from the chill that fills him. At least, he knows where is up and where is down. At least, he’s not dead anymore. It’s all about the little victories.

When Derek enters the room, Stiles is still trying to sit, but he gives up and lets his head rest on the pillow.

“You’re up,” Derek states.

Stiles shrugs in return. Does it count as up if he can’t stand?

“You scared the hell out of us. Good to see you’re better.”

Stiles smiles, because it’s his only way to answer, but he remembers Allison and he shivers.

“Are you cold?”

Stiles nods, and Derek opens the wardrobe as if it was his and gets another blanket, which he carefully spreads on top of the others. The weight is comforting, as strange as it seems. It feels safe, so far away from wherever he was when he died.

Derek rests his back against the wardrobe and crosses his arms. He doesn’t talk, and Stiles can’t really help on that front either. At least, he’s not alone.

“Do you need anything else?”

Stiles jolts. He had gotten used to the silence. He thinks for an instant, cutting the question in small parts he can understand. Then, he shrugs, unsure of his answer.

“We need to find a way for you to communicate. If this was silly before, it’s now a slow descent into insanity. Can you write?”

Stiles shakes his head, and Derek sighs deeply in return.

“I have a last means resort, and I’m not suggesting it lightly.”

With a flicker of his hand, Derek releases his claws. Stiles remembers the last time a werewolf had to use claws on him; he was possessed by the Nogitsune, and even though Scott saved him then, Stiles is not keen on renewing the painful experience. He shakes his head with energy, regretting it a second later when his headache comes back tenfold. He closes his eyes firmly and focuses on his breathing.

He tries to remember the list of symptoms Ada mentioned, but his mind is foggy. Well, the worst side effect was death, he can recall that much, and he’s already passed that bridge apparently.

Then there’s a warm hand on his frozen arm, almost burning to the touch, and the pain recedes, leaving him light. He opens his eyes to find Derek, sitting on a chair by the bed, frowning in concentration—or in worry, Stiles isn’t sure.

The black lines disappear from Derek’s forearm, but he doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he rubs his eyes with the other.

“I’m so tired. I’m getting too old for this.”

And maybe it’s because Stiles usually talks too much, or maybe it’s because he didn’t really know how to listen before he had no other choice, but Derek starts talking again.

“The running, and fighting, and lack of sleeping. And the constant worry. I’m really glad that werewolves can’t get ulcers.” Derek smiles. He made a joke. That was unexpected. “It was so calm these last couple years, I even started taking classes at the community college.”

Stiles bites his lip. He imagines Derek with a backpack and a paper coffee cup, trying to take notes while most of the room has eyes on him, because of course, all the impressionable twenty-something would be looking at him, just like Stiles had been when he’d first met Derek. Well, good for him.

“Yeah, ridiculous, I know.”

Stiles shakes his head with a soft smile that Derek answers easily.

“Well, I’ll let you rest.”

Derek tries to stand up, but Stiles holds onto his hand with a strength he didn’t know he had. Derek’s eyes open wide, and he stops in his movement, even though he could easily slip away. He stays still for a long time, until he relaxes, letting himself down on the chair.

“You don’t want to be alone,” he states.

Stiles hunches his shoulders, because that’s the truth, but hearing it aloud makes him feel weak, and he really doesn’t want to.

“Honestly, I’m not sure I want to be alone either.”

That’s a lie, and Stiles doesn’t need to be a werewolf to know it, but he doesn’t care. If that’s the official version, it suits him just fine.

“Okay, this is awkward, so I’m going to turn. You can’t talk, I won’t be able to talk either, that will balance the scales.”

Stiles releases Derek’s hand, and when the werewolf starts removing his shirt, Stiles turns his back, rolling onto his side, and curling in a ball, trying to hold on to what little warmth he’s generating. A moment later, the bed moves under Derek’s weight, and the wolf lies down next to Stiles.

If Stiles is honest with himself, he wants his dad. He wants to hide into his arms like when he was a kid and feel safe again, even if it’s temporary, even if it’s a lie. The Sheriff is at work though, and Stiles doesn’t want to burden him once more.

Sharing the bed with a giant wolf may be the next best thing, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember my riding accident a month ago? I had to go to the doctor yesterday, because I injured myself in the fall. I... hm... sprained a finger. The forefinger of my dominant hand, of course. And now, I have to rest it until it heals. Yay.
> 
> Anyway, with all the emotion, I completely forgot what day it was, so I'm sorry for being a day late.
> 
> By the way, the scene with the Nogitsune is one of my favorite scenes in this entire story. Hope you liked it as much as I did.


	12. I’m allowed to think

When Stiles was a little kid, his mom took him grocery shopping every Saturday morning. His dad would be at work, and this was the only moment she could do said shopping. But Stiles rarely behaved. He wanted to see everything, touch everything; he wanted to push the cart and run between the aisles.

One Saturday morning—he must have been four or five—he miraculously behaved. He stayed seated in the cart and took whatever his mom gave him and put it in the bags. She was so happy that she bought him a stuffed animal. There wasn’t much choice in the shop, so it was this big brown thing that was probably supposed to look like a dog standing on two legs, but when the Sheriff got home, he called it Chewie between two bursts of laughter, and it remained its name.

Stiles was proud of Chewie, because he had deserved it. He took the toy everywhere with him, and it lived through a cycle of getting dirty and getting washed until it became so ugly it was hard to guess what kind of animal it was. Chewie was soon missing both eyes and an ear, and its stuffing got packed tightly into its stomach after one too many trips to the washing machine, leaving its paws limp.

From the day he received Chewie, Stiles was already too old for a Binky, so it wasn’t one. It was only that one toy he took wherever he could get away with it, and that he would always sleep with. Definitely not a Binky. As he grew up, he convinced himself that he didn’t need it, and when Scott stayed overnight, Chewie slept in the closet. Sometimes, he remained there after Scott had left, because Stiles wasn’t a kid anymore and he didn’t need an ugly torn stuffed dog.

When Stiles and Scott went to camp one summer, Chewie stayed behind. It took weeks after they came back for Stiles to realize the toy had disappeared while he was away. “I burned it,” his dad said casually. “I tidied your room and it smelled really bad, so I burned it.” Stiles wanted to argue, but he wasn’t a kid anymore, and Chewie had never been his Binky anyway, so he forgot about it.

Right now though, Stiles wants nothing more than to hug the ugly old stuffed dog, smelly as it may be. He longs for it, for the comfort it used to bring, for his childhood with his mom and his dad and Scott, before everything went wrong.

Instead, he sleeps and dreams of Allison welcoming him to hell. There are dozens of people behind her, some he recognizes, others he doesn’t, but most of them wear a deputy or a nurse uniform.

When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is black fur and he panics for an instant before remembering who it belongs to. Derek is awake, his eyes wide open and fixed on Stiles, but he doesn’t move, and simply looking at him puts Stiles back to sleep.

Then, Donovan joins Allison in his dream. The bottom half of the chimera’s face is covered in blood, but that doesn’t keep him from smiling meanly.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Donovan says with a fawning voice. “You feel guilt for her, even though _I’m_ the one you killed.”

Donovan marches forward, and Stiles takes a step back.

“You can tell yourself what you want, but it was no accident. You wanted me dead.”

Stiles knows that and would gladly admit it, but even in his dreams he’s mute.

“You’ve convinced yourself that I was a monster, that there was no other way, but would Scott have killed me? I don’t think so.”

If Stiles turns his back and runs, Donovan will catch him and bite him, giving him another terrifying scar. He doesn’t want to face him though, especially with Allison licking her lips and playing with a ring dagger.

“I was a kid, and I was dealt the worst hand. Do you think it’s fair?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Come on, Stiles,” Allison calls out. “Why don’t you play with us? We will have so much fun, the three of us. I’ve prepared games, but Donovan’s a sore loser. Do you want a riddle?”

“Oh yes,” Donovan agrees. “I love riddles.”

“I am so fragile saying my name will break me. What am I?”

“Oh, I know that one!” Donovan says chirpily. It doesn’t suit him at all. “You’re being naughty, Allie.”

Stiles knows the truth, though. Allison has always played dirty. She was his friend and he liked her—most of the time—but she’s not the kind of person he wants to see on the other side.

“Am I?” she asks innocently. “Let me ask it again. Stiles is so weak that everyone here can break me except for him. What am I?”

Donovan laughs manically, his hands on his knees. He doesn’t seem to remember how to stop. Allison joins him, and Stiles takes it as his cue to run away as fast as he can. Because he knows the answer, and he hates it.

_Silence._

Stiles lurches awake. He’s covered in cold sweat and tries to sit up, but a weight on his stomach is holding him down. For one second, he thinks it’s Allison, and he can almost feel her breath on his cheek. _I am Death._ He can’t breathe, he can’t think, and his heart is going to explode. The room closes in on him and everything is dark, so dark.

_Make it stop_ , he wants to say. _Don’t let me die_ , he wants to beg. But he’s lost his words and without them, he’s nothing. He’s frail and stupid and cocky, and Allison is right: above all, he’s weak. He sobs silently between two shallow breaths, and prays without words, not sure what for, not sure who to.

And then his fingers find fur. Or fur finds his fingers, he’s not sure of anything. And fur is real, and there’s nothing so soft in hell, is there? So he pets it, focusing on the moment and his breathing, until he sees his father’s bedroom for what it is. A safe place. He counts his fingers. _One two three four five six seven eight nine ten._ And then he counts them again. And again. And again.

His breathing settles down, and even though his heart is still beating too fast, he’s not afraid anymore of it breaking his ribs. He yanks back the blankets, wet with sweat, and they get stuck in something. Well, someone. Derek. Oops. The wolf gets his head out and glares at Stiles, and this, more than anything else, takes him back to the moment.

With the hint of a smile on his lips, Stiles helps Derek settle back on top of the covers, and he soon joins him. He’s cold again, but the sheets are damp. He lies on his side, his head resting on his forearm, facing the wolf, and he forces a smile. If he could, he would apologize. For burrowing Derek under the blankets; for waking him up; for panicking; for being so freaking weak that he can’t even sleep alone.

Instead, he tries to find sleep again, but the moment he closes his eyes, he sees Allison’s face. So he opens them again and looks into Derek’s, incapable of guessing what the wolf is thinking. Strangely, he’s happy that neither of them can talk, because he’s sure he would ruin that moment with a stupid joke, or Derek would say something mean, and they would be back to square one.

And the silence makes this moment theirs. Something they share with each other, and that no one else ever has to know about. Something they never have to talk about again. The thought gives him the strength to reach for Derek’s fur. His hand is hovering over the wolf’s shoulder, not daring to touch it, but then Derek stands up, shakes himself, and settles down again closer, his back to Stiles. Close enough that Stiles feels his warmth. He takes it as his cue and slips his fingers in the fur. It’s so much easier when he can’t see the wolf staring at him. Derek exhales softly and his muscles relax under Stiles’ pressure.

They never have to talk about this either again.

Stiles falls asleep again, and even though this may not qualify as peaceful or restful, it’s at least dreamless. When he wakes up again, it’s morning, and he’s alone in the bed. Derek is back to human form and sits on a chair, reading on his e-reader. Stiles yawns and stretches. He’s not exactly rested, but his mind has settled a bit.

“Hungry?” Derek asks, and Stiles isn’t, but he thinks back to the last few days and tries to remember the last thing he ate, and he’s pretty sure it was a mini-burger at the loft something like thirty-six hours ago. He shrugs and Derek rolls his eyes in return.

“Let’s go,” he says, and then stands up, leaving his e-reader on the chair. “Your dad put some clean clothes for you in the bathroom. You should get cleaned up, I’ll get…” He checks his watch. “… a very late lunch started.”

And with that, he exits the room. Stiles feels sore all over, but he still gets out of bed and into the bathroom. He’s covered with dried sweat and he smells awful. It must have been painful for Derek to lie by his side. Good thing they’re not talking about this. Ever.

Despite a hot shower that leaves his skin red, he’s still cold. He puts on the jeans and T-shirt his dad set aside for him, feeling sixteen again and not disliking it as much as he’d thought he would. There’s a hoodie in there too and he puts it on like an armor, zipping it up and slipping his hands into the pockets.

When he enters the kitchen, pasta is boiling on the stove, the table is set for two, and Derek is back to his reading. Stiles never took him for a big reader, but it suits him. Wasn’t the werewolf some kind of jock back in high school? He wonders where he got into books. Maybe Paige. First loves tend to change one a lot.

“I hope you like Bolognese. There was a jar in the cupboard.”

Stiles nods. After living by himself for a couple years in DC, his favorite food has become whatever he doesn’t have to cook. For one second, he wonders how to say ‘thanks’ in sign language, but he doesn’t have the means to look and he’s not even sure it would work.

There are so many questions he wants to ask, the first one being ‘where’s everybody?’, quickly followed by ‘do you, by any chance, know where to find Nyx?’, completed by ‘what are you reading?’, because his priorities are mostly ordered.

If he wants to talk again, he needs to fulfill his part of the Seelie Queen’s deal, but he doesn’t trust Ada. She stole his shoes and even if she didn’t realize it at the time, she haunted him. There’s also the part where she’s working for the Queen, and Stiles certainly doesn’t trust _her_.

He trusts Derek, though. Not enough to be sure that the werewolf won’t hide important information from him again, but enough to chase monsters together. If only Stiles could ask for his help… Derek offered a way to communicate, last night, and getting claws stuck into his nape may not be an attractive experience, but he’s starting to consider it. A quick look at his watch reminds him that Scott’s wedding is less than twenty-four hours away, and as best man, he’s supposed to give a speech at the reception. He needs to get his voice back before then.

He thinks about it more while he eats his pasta with little appetite, but he can’t figure another way of enlisting Derek’s help. When he pushes away his half-eaten plate, his decision is made. He stands up, goes by Derek’s side and takes his hand. The werewolf’s lips part as he draws a quick breath, but Stiles doesn’t give him time to react and presses Derek’s hand against his nape.

_I want you to visit my memories_ , he thinks as loud as he can, as if Derek could somehow hear it.

“Okay. I guess we’re doing this. You trust me to enter your mind.”

Stiles swallows before nodding. He’s actually scared, because there are so many memories he doesn’t want to share, but he wants his deal to be over, and the sooner the better.

“Alright. Scott and I have been working on it, and we found a less messy way to pull the memories.”

Stiles sighs in relief.

“I’m still going to put my claws in your nape, but I can let you control what you want to show me. The easiest way to sort your memories is the method of loci. It’s also called the mind palace. Just imagine…” Derek draws his lips into a thin line. “Remember the other day, the Sheriff Station. Imagine yourself back there, except every case file represents a memory. At first, they will all be closed, but when you want to show me a memory, just open the folder.”

That seems simple enough. Which means that something will probably go wrong. Derek leads him to the living room, where he invites him to sit on the couch. Stiles focuses on his memory from the day before yesterday; he was sitting on the floor with a pile of folders, while Derek read a book at the Sheriff’s desk. Once the image is clear in his mind, he nods at Derek, who puts one hand on his arm, and the other behind his neck.

For one second, Stiles is only pain. A jolt of electricity starts in his nape and triggers every single nerve in his body. He wants to scream, but he can’t. He wants it to stop, he wants everything to stop, and then the pain goes away, almost as fast as it came.

He’s in the Sheriff Station, and Derek looks at him over his book.

“All right. Time to show me the deal you made.”

Straight to business then. Stiles looks at the folders on the floor in front of him, trying to figure out the one containing the memory. He picks it, but he can’t open it. The Queen will know, and she will punish him again. She’s already taken his voice, and she seems pretty creative in her sentencing.

Derek stands up and comes by Stiles’ side, towering over him.

“I can’t stay forever. Just open the file.”

But he can’t. The last time he tried to outsmart Morgan, she knew. He would love to believe that he’s safe from her, that his friends will protect him, but their track record against the Queen is nothing to be proud of. This was a bad idea after all. He should find Nyx with Ada’s help, not Derek’s. Even though he doesn’t trust her and never will, she’s still the safest bet.

“I promise it won’t hurt.” Derek kneels by Stiles’ side. “Open the file, and then we will take care of whatever the Queen has on you. Together.”

And maybe it’s that last word, or maybe it’s last night, but Stiles wants to believe him. He tentatively opens the file before he can change his mind.

_A hand pushes him into his car’s steering wheel. It hurts._

_Lydia kisses him to stop a panic attack and she’s the most beautiful person in the world._

_Stiles sticks a post-it marked ‘Derek’ onto the black king of his chess board, hoping that they will understand._

_Scott stands in a gasoline puddle and Stiles barely hesitates before joining him._

_Stiles holds a saw next to Derek’s arm. He’s panicking, but ready to do anything to save the werewolf._

_Matagot jumps on his lap and stares at him until he starts rubbing her between the ears. The cat purrs and Stiles smiles._

_Ada sets her Converse-wearing feet on the coffee table. Stiles hates her._

_There’s not enough mountain ash to complete the circle around Jungle, but he still does it. With the power of his mind. That’s awesome, but no one cares._

_Derek is kneeling on the floor, his hands covered in blood. Boyd’s blood. And there’s nothing Stiles can say, so he reaches out and puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder. As if it would do anything._

“It helped,” Derek says, and Stiles jumps. That’s not part of his memory. “You brought me back. I would have gone over the edge, I would have torn everything standing between me and Deucalion. I would have made it rain blood, and probably died in the process.” Derek pushes himself up and turns to face Stiles. “But that’s not why we’re here.”

It’s so strange, Derek not following the memory. Stiles had to haul him to the kitchen and wash the werewolf’s hands himself. Suddenly, they’re standing in front the sink, the water running pink, as if just thinking about it took them there. With all the care in the world, Stiles rubs Derek’s hands, even though they’ve been clean for a long time.

Is that when Derek realized that Stiles was his anchor? Did something happen between them in that moment without Stiles even noticing? He’s pretty sure that after the deal is done, after the wedding, after they’ve gone back to normal, he’s going to go back through all his memories with the filter of Derek’s words from this past few days.

Derek removes his hands from Stiles’ hold and turns off the tap. In Stiles’ memories, the werewolf was limp; he barely moved, his eyes unfocused, his mouth slightly opened. The contrast is mind shattering.

“You have to focus,” Derek says. “I can’t stay too long, it’s risky.”

Stiles closes his eyes and bites his lip. With one deep breath, he takes them back to the Sheriff Station, where he closes the file. He never really wanted to show his deal with the Queen to Derek, so his mind took them somewhere else. Everywhere else. He takes another folder, but doesn’t open it, because as long as he’s not sure, the chance he’s going to take Derek to the wrong memory is too high. And he has many memories he refuses to share with his friend.

“What’s wrong, Stiles?” Derek asks, his voice soft and his eyes hopeful.

“The Queen already took my voice,” Stiles answers. Then, his eyes widen in surprise and he puts a hand in front of his mouth. “Did you hear that?”

“I did.” The corner of Derek’s lips goes up.

“Because I’m not talking, I’m thinking. I’m allowed to think.”

“Yes, so…”

“I’m allowed to think!” Stiles repeats, interrupting his friend, but he doesn’t care. It’s his turn to talk. He’s been waiting for too long. “But the Queen still took my voice because I talked to you, and I don’t want to know what she’s going to do to me if I get around her punishment.”

“Calm down, you’re getting overexcited.”

“Try not talking for a day!”

“I have not talked for days on end. It was fine.”

Stiles scoffs. “Of course you did. Oh how I missed this.”

“The sound of your own voice?”

“Yes!” Stiles stands up, unable to stay seated. He’s positively giddy from happiness. He starts walking in circles and calculating what he may or may not tell Derek.

“Scott. Don’t tell him… Don’t tell him that I died, okay? I don’t want him to panic, I’m fine. It’s his wedding, he doesn’t me to bring him down.”

Derek frowns and looks about to refuse, but Stiles tries the puppy eyes and they seem to work. “Sure.” Derek sighs.

“Thanks. Now, Ada knows about the deal. She knows what I have to do. I can’t tell you about it, so you must ask her. Ask her what Kallan was planning to do with Malia. And ask her to give me back my damn shoes! She’s been haunting me barefoot, she obviously doesn’t need them.”

“I will. Well, maybe not the shoes.”

“That’s the important part! They’re my shoes, and she stole them.” Stiles knows he’s being petty, and he’s not sure why.

“We have bigger fish to fry.”

And then, Stiles slows down. He stops pacing and looks straight at Derek for the first time since he’s realized he could talk in his mind palace. “It bothers me,” he says, suddenly serious. “She tried to make me crazy, and then she just… takes my Converses? She took something that’s mine.” He’s not sure that he’s talking about the shoes anymore, so he shakes his head and pushes back whatever that thought was. “That was the first clue I had that she may be the ghost, by the way.”

Derek rubs the heels of his hands on his eyes. “Alright,” he finally says. “I’ll ask her about the deal, about Kallan, and to give your shoes back.”

“Thank you,” Stiles answers a bit too energetically.

“If there’s anything else I need to know, now’s the moment. I can’t hold this safely much longer.”

“I have so many questions. Like, where’s Ada? How’s Theo? Is my dad at work? What the hell is Inès? Did everyone get home safe? What are you always reading? Are we really Friday already? If I don’t get my voice back until tomorrow, will you give my speech? I wrote it already. Well, actually, I wrote like twelve versions, but I can still read, so I can choose the right one before the wedding, and…”

“I’ll answer all of these once we’re out of here. I really have to let you go now.”

There’s one thing that Derek needs to know, and being in Stiles’ head makes I much easier to explain.

“Can I show you one last thing?”

Derek exhales. “Quickly then.”

Stiles grabs a case file, knowing it’s the right one. He opens it, and they find themselves in Stiles’ bathroom. His hands are covered in blood and he’s washing them, with none of the kindness he used for Derek’s. He scrubs and scrubs until they’re pink, but they’ll never be clean enough.

“Is that your blood?” Derek asks. He’s standing at the back of the room, his arms crossed.

“No. It doesn’t matter. You just have to know that I was at the bottom and I was still digging. I dug for a while afterwards, actually.”

Stiles follows his memory to his room, Derek on his heels. His murder board was still set up then, and with a shaky hand, he writes his hypotheses: _Donovan not dead, Donovan dead, Someone took the body._ Then he realized that no one should ever see that, so he frantically erased the board. Furious, he threw the eraser at the board, before rubbing his injured shoulder.

And then, he fell to the floor like someone cut his strings and started crying, his entire body shivering. Heavy sobs shook him, until he felt his phone in his pocket. It was a lifeline and he grabbed it with all his strength.

“Who’s Donovan? What happened to you?” Derek asks.

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

Stiles’ hands shake badly, but he still opens the phone app and looks for Derek’s name. His thumb hovers over the call button for an agonizingly long time, before he turns the screen off altogether.

“I wanted to call you,” Stiles finally explains. “No one else, only you, because you were the only person who could understand.”

“But I was gone. I was in South America, wasn’t I?” Derek’s jaw tightens.

“That’s not… Shit, Derek, that’s not what I meant at all. Sure, I was really angry at you for leaving, but that’s not why I never called.” Stiles breathes out, looking carefully for his next words. “You got away. We were all stuck here in… Crazy Town, Mad County, State of Whatever-the-hell-was-happening, but you, you had a chance at peace. Maybe even happiness, and I couldn’t take that from you.”

Derek doesn’t say a thing, but his face relaxes.

“We can go back now, I just needed you to know that.”

But Derek doesn’t move. He’s standing against the jamb of the door and crosses his arms. “What happened to you, Stiles? That’s the bad thing you did senior year, right?”

“I’ll tell you, but not here. Not now.”

“Like hell. You cannot take me to this specific memory and not tell me what it’s about.”

Derek barely raises his voice, but his eyes flicker cold blue. Even in anger, he stays perfectly steady, and Stiles, still shaking from the memory, feels jealous. He doesn’t want to talk about Donovan, not now, not until he can use his voice.

But he has something Derek doesn’t: magic. He feels it tingle in his core, pressing out. He doesn’t exactly understand how Derek enters his mind, but he knows the werewolf has to use his claws to do it, so he focuses on freezing them. Apparently, he really wants to leave his own mind, since it works almost instantly.

Stiles opens his eyes and immediately stands up to get out of reach of Derek. The werewolf raises his hand in appeasement.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek says on his calming tone that makes Stiles crazy. “I would like answers, but it’s not like you’re going to give them to me right now.”

Stiles’ shoulder aches, right over his most repulsive scar. It sometimes does when he overexerts it, but right now, he knows that the sting comes from his mind. He still rubs it, trying to warm his cold muscles.

“Why is it that whenever I want some silence, you can’t stop talking, and whenever I need answers, you shut up?”

Stiles shrugs, raising his palms. Maybe it’s destiny. Or maybe he and Derek are both experts at avoidance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riddles, more riddles! It's strangely hard to find ones that work in context, especially since the door one worked so well in the show.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	13. Assemble your merry band of assorted shifters

Derek washes the dishes while Stiles dries them, and even though it’s always been his least favorite chore growing up, Stiles appreciates the moment. It’s mundane and calming, and even though he’s bored in Boston without the running away fearing for his friends’ life, he’s grateful for the breather. He brushes the bandage on the nape of his neck.

“Don’t touch that,” Derek snaps. “It needs to heal.” There’s a moment of silence, and then the werewolf starts answering Stiles’ questions. “Your dad and Melissa are back to work, and Chris is keeping an eye on Theo, who’s still resting in your room. Lydia went back home for a capillary emergency, her words, and I think the girls went with her. Ada is skulking in the garden, nobody wanted her in the house.”

Stiles barely acknowledges, but Derek continues, telling him that Scott got everyone home safely, and that Rhonda, Theo’s alpha, was very thankful to him.

Stiles smiles softly; this is the strangest part of his friendship with Scott. Scott’s the alpha, a true alpha as that, and they all need him to be strong and good. So Stiles often acts as his shadow, willing to do what Scott can’t. Willing to make deals with the devil and to cover his hands with blood, so that Scott remain a paragon of virtue. 

Stiles loses his voice and dies for a little while, and his friend is the one getting thanks, but that’s alright. Someone has to do it, and even if it’s not a fun job every day, Stiles is glad to be the one doing it.

“I don’t know what Inès is,” Derek continues, ignorant of Stiles’ line of thought. “Isaac told me she’s their emissary’s daughter, but she doesn’t have enough magic to be a druid. I guess she has a spark, like you, but I’m not sure.”

Derek cleans the sink while Stiles dries the pan and puts it away. When he turns back, Derek is resting against the counter, his hands on the top, his legs carelessly crossed at the ankles. He seems lost in thought, so Stiles shakes a hand in front of his face.

“About your speech.” Derek crosses his arms. “I don’t like talking in front of people, and I’m pretty sure I won’t be any good at it, but sure, I’ll do it.” And as if he suddenly remembers he has a reputation as a sour wolf to maintain, he adds: “It’s not like you can ask Scott anyway.”

Stiles smiles to thank him, and he’s pretty sure he used to know the sign for ‘thank you,’ but his mind can’t access it right now. Damn deal.

Derek pushes himself from the countertop and claps his hands. “End of the break. Let’s get back to work.”

He walks to the garden and Stiles follows him. Ada is sitting backwards on a chair, her arms set on the back, and her head resting in the crook of her elbow. She stares at the forest that extends behind the fence, her expression unreadable, and doesn’t immediately notices their presence. Does she long for her world? She’s always seemed so self-assured since he met her that seeing her with her guard down, even for just an instant, makes him think of her as human—as in, having human emotions.

Her feet are bare in the grass, the Converses neatly set on the lowest step, and she’s pulled the hood over her head. It cannot exactly contain her curls, who flutter with the wind.

Then, she hears them and stands promptly. Her soft expression turns into a smug smile, erasing every good thought Stiles might have had of her.

“Boys.”

Derek growls.

“We’ve already established that I do not fear you, wolf. The least you could do is act as a civilized person.”

“I have questions for you.”

“Well, I most likely have answers for you, so ask away.”

“What did Kallan want with Malia and the others?”

“Took you long enough.”

“We were busy saving them.”

She laughs easily, her face relaxing, and in that moment, she reminds Stiles of Allison so much, his heart feels heavy when he remembers that his friend is dead.

“Kallan was planning on selling them.”

“What for?”

“Money, I guess? His buyer is a woman named Nyx. She was planning on using them at ingredients for her rituals.”

Stiles shivers. He remembers a documentary he saw on TV about the ivory trade. He was horrified to see beautiful elephants lying in their own blood, their tusks torn away by poachers, and he struggled to fall asleep that night. And now, he imagines Malia lying on the ground, her claws and teeth stolen, and he hates this Nyx with all his being.

“What kind of rituals?” Derek asks, rage searing into his voice.

“The bad kind. The kind where you kill a supernatural to steal their powers.”

“I guess that’s Stiles’ deal with the Queen, then. Taking care of this Nyx.”

Stiles nods vigorously.

“I’m not acknowledging the existence of such a deal, but yeah, if there was one, this would be part of it. And I am here to help. Nyx cannot go back to my world. No one can at the moment, the doors were sealed while you were fighting Kallan.”

“The thunderstorm.”

“Yes. She finds herself stuck here unexpectedly, and I know where she most likely is. So assemble your merry band of assorted shifters and let’s go hunt us an asshole. The sooner we get her, the sooner I get home.”

In the end, Derek only calls Peter, Chris, Isaac, Jackson and Ethan. Ada has assured them that Nyx should be alone; Derek cannot involve the pack without telling Scott, and he doesn’t want to interrupt the wedding preparations.

Stiles puts his shoes on, ready to leave, but Derek stops him.

“You’re not coming. Deaton and Inès will be there soon with something that will help you control your magic. We’ll take care of Nyx.”

Stiles pouts in return. His arms crossed, he tries to stare down Derek, who barely raises an eyebrow.

“Really? Won’t work.” Then, he softens. “Look, I’m sorry to say this, but you’re useless to us if anytime you try to access your magic, you almost die. Call me once Deaton and Inès have done whatever they’re planning on doing, I’ll tell you where to join us. But Ada wants to bring Nyx to the Queen at sundown, so we cannot lose time.”

Stiles reluctantly nods. He doesn’t like staying behind, but Derek is right. His knowledge of magic is too incomplete for him to risk using it, even by accident. So he remains in the house, watching through the window while Derek climbs into his Camaro, Ada in the passenger seat, and waits for Deaton and Inès.

Curiosity gets the best of him, and he goes to his room. Theo is alone, seated against his pillows, playing on his phone. He barely raises his head when Stiles opens the door. He looks much better, even though he’s still paler than usual, and Stiles settles a little. The deal was the right decision, despite everything.

“If you’re here for your bed, I’ll give it back to you as soon as I can walk.”

They’ve barely talked about anything since Stiles left Beacon Hills, but Theo went through literal hell too, and Stiles understands him a little better now. From what Liam told Stiles, Theo saw his biggest mistake, his sister, chasing him and torturing him, just like Allison was chasing Stiles.

He wishes he could tell him all that; he probably wouldn’t, though, because that would mean admitting he died, and he’s not ready for that. Instead, he waves away Theo’s worry.

“So you’re really mute? They told me, but it’s hard to imagine you of all people incapable to talk.”

Stiles shrugs.

“Well, I owe you one.”

If that’s his way of thanking Stiles, it’s… not that bad, actually. Stiles nods with a smile, before leaving the room.

Deaton and Inès arrive soon after. The vet is carrying a small wooden box and a heavy book that he sets on the kitchen table. Stiles watches in awe as he and Inès prepare a dark concoction, mixing a greenish powder with essential oils.

“This is henna,” Deaton explains. “It’s a natural dye. We will apply it on your skin in a pattern that will contain your magic.”

“It will then fade little by little, so you will have a small amount of magic to control first.”

“Henna was Inès’ idea. It is a clever one for it is neither permanent, nor will it suddenly let you access the entirety of your power. We will infuse it with chamomilla, to help center you, and mistletoe, to contain the magic.”

Stiles wonders if it will hurt, but he doesn’t stop them to find a way to ask. Any level of pain is preferable to dying, so he offers his wrists when asked and lets Deaton copy an intricate design from his book, using a piece of wood shaped like a pencil to apply the dark paste. It starts with a trinity knot on the inside of his wrist, soon surrounded by a circle. It reminds him a bit of Derek’s tattoo, in a more delicate fashion.

“The knot represents your body, your mind, and your spirit. They’re placed inside the protection of a circle.”

A line starts from the circle and goes all around his wrist in a complex pattern of Celtic knots. They look like branches of an old tree climbing across his skin, and Stiles likes it a lot. Even without the meaning, the lines form a beautiful drawing.

Deaton then applies the paste into the same pattern on Stiles’ other wrist, while Inès prepares a second concoction, pressing a lemon and mixing its juice with sugar. It doesn't look very magical, but what does he know?

She explains how to care for the henna while it dries, struggling with some of the words, but overall, this is common sense. Don’t touch it too much, don’t wash it for at least twelve hours, don’t scrub it, and hydrate it. If he follows the instructions, it should last about three weeks, during which Deaton and Inès can teach him about control.

Once the paste is dry, she applies the lemon juice and sugar preparation with a cotton ball, her hand sure but gentle, before wrapping Stiles’ wrist with a paper towel and then gauze, that she promises she’ll remove before the wedding.

Under Deaton’s instructions, Stiles tries to access his magic, but he cannot visualize the warm ball inside his chest, and he puts his thumb up. While they pack, Stiles calls Derek, who picks up after one ring.

“Give the phone to Deaton,” he says as a hello, and Stiles obeys with a very theatrical and loud sigh.

“Hello Derek.” At least one of them is civilized. “Yes, it worked.”

After a few more moments, Deaton gives Stiles his phone back. the other end of the line is silent, so he clears his throat.

“Okay, so I’ll send you the coordinates by text. Ada was wrong, Nyx has two more White pack werewolves with her, as well as a man we think is a Fay, and possibly a druid. We’re not sure, their smells are off. We’ll be waiting for you.”

And he hangs up. Stiles grabs his keys and jacket, and leaves, barely sparing enough time to wave Deaton and Inès goodbye. He’ll thank them later, when he gets his voice back.

The Jeep handles perfectly, purring as though it’s happy to see him, and it takes him fifteen minutes to reach the location. He parks next to Derek’s Camaro, Chris’ SUV, Jackson’s extravagant rental, and Peter’s no less extravagant Shelby Cobra—the man has taste, Stiles will give him that.

Derek is by his side about half a second later. He takes one look at Stiles’ bandaged wrist and wrinkles his nose.

“Nice combination. The lemon is just the cherry on top of smells that don’t go well together. Let’s hope it works.”

He then leads Stiles on a beaten path, explaining him the plan. Ada and Derek will take care of Nyx, while Peter and Chris keep the White werewolves busy. Ethan and Jackson’s objective is the other Fay, and Isaac and Stiles’ is the possible druid.

Stiles isn’t sure he will work as well with Isaac as he did with Derek, but he understands that his friend wants to stay close to the unknown element that is Ada. Also, the last time they went into a fight like this one, Stiles shot Derek. That can’t be a good memory.

They reach an abandoned warehouse, next to which the others are waiting. Chris hands Stiles the same gun he used in the subway station. Stiles checks the chamber by habit, even though he’s pretty sure the weapons dealer knows what he’s doing, and takes the magazine that is offered to him.

The sun is already low in the sky and there’s no time to lose, so they quickly put their sunglasses on and take their positions next to the main door. Chris opens the door and they enter in a rough formation, the wolves in front, the humans in the back. Stiles follows Isaac closely, and the werewolf focuses immediately on a short man with a dark mane standing at the opposite corner of the immense room. From a distance, the guy looks like Nicholas Cage in whatever awful movie he's acted lately—something with a car from hell? A bike from hell? A jet-ski from hell?

Isaac rushes toward the guy, leaving Stiles in the figurative sand. But before the werewolf can reach their enemy, he is cast back as if he'd hit a wall. Stiles picks up his pace and offers him his hand. Isaac isn’t hurt, just furious. Looking at the ground, Stiles notices a mountain ash circle and he breaks it with the tip of his foot.

The most-likely-druid doesn't seem fazed though, and sends them a threatening smile, baring his teeth. Then, he turns into a werewolf, with claws and teeth and impressive sideburns. So, not a druid. Wonderful intel once more. Stiles kind of wishes Lydia was there to gloat about what happens when she's not, but now's not the time.

Isaac jumps on Cage, using his weight and strength to make him fall, but his victory is short-lived: with a flicker of his hand, Cage sends him flying straight into the closest wall. Isaac whimpers as he falls and Stiles doesn’t hesitate. Now that there’s no one in the vicinity of their enemy, he aims and shoots two bullets center mass. The first one hits somewhere in Cage's lower ribs, the second ends in the wall.

The man touches his wound and even in the darkness, Stiles sees blood on his fingers, but that doesn't stop him. It barely slows him as he raises his hand, whispers a few words, and a rope shows out of nowhere, rushing at Stiles.

Stiles falls flat on the ground to avoid it and jumps back to his feet the second the rope is out of reach. What just happened? What the hell is this… thing? Some sort of druid-werewolf hybrid? And then it his him: that's who Nyx has been using her rituals on. Whatever he was at first, he's consumed other supernaturals to make himself stronger.

No wolfsbane, no mistletoe apart from the tiny amount in the henna, and certainly no contingency plan for this. With his magic, he could… No, he mustn't think like that, it's not helpful. Quick inventory: he has a gun that barely hurts Cage, a vial of mountain ash, but that doesn't seem to impede him; his wallet, which contains nothing helpful; an old tissue, which ew; and the Jeep's key, which is pretty useless at the moment.

Stiles remembers the Jeep saving the day a couple times in the past, and he's seriously thinking of running outside to drive it into Cage, when he hears the sweetest sound: his car's engine, growling loudly outside. He's not sure who's driving, but it's still enough to grab Isaac’s arm and pull him back from the fight.

Stiles can just imagine the car driving through the old wall and running over Cage, and then it happens. The wall crashes down and the Jeep enters the warehouse, pushing Cage into a wall until he can’t move a limb. A quick look at the driver’s seat later, Isaac and Stiles are absolutely amazed.

“Is that a literal _deus ex machina_?” Isaac asks, smiling from ear to ear. His voice is strained as he’s trying to regain his breath after being cast into a wall.

Stiles nods, his own smile barely more contained. The car apparently drove itself. He’s not sure how, he’s not sure why, but he’s thankful to the Jeep and whatever power drove it here.

He then takes a look around the warehouse: the White pack werewolves are lying unconscious on the floor, and Peter is sitting on top of the second Fay, his claws covered with her blood. He’s ripped her throat. Disgusting.

Behind them, Derek is holding Nyx by the neck while Ada is tying her hands with a fine silver link, which Stiles recognizes as the one she tied her hair with. Nyx grunts in pain when Derek releases her and she falls to her knees.

Stiles loves it when a plan comes together. None of his friends were injured, they were able to minimize the casualties on Nyx’ side—he almost feels sorry for the dead Fay, but then he remembers that they kidnapped and killed supernaturals, and Nic Cage stuck against the wall is the living proof. Also, he hasn’t shot a friend this time, which is a considerable improvement.

Now that danger is over, everyone relaxes. Ethan puts an arm around Jackson’s shoulders, Ada checks and rechecks Nyx’ ties, Peter wipes his hand on a formerly white handkerchief, and Stiles and Chris make sure that their guns are safely out of ammunition before holstering them.

Then, Stiles notices Derek standing in front of the Jeep, looking at it with a frown. “I don’t remember you parking there, Stiles.”

Stiles looks sheepishly at him, because he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done something stupid like using his magic to summon his car. Right? He pulls his sleeves up and removes the bandage on his left wrist. The henna is still there, black paste across his pale skin. He raises his arm to show Derek.

“You can’t do magic. Then something else pulled your car here.”

“Obviously,” Ada says, as if it explained anything. She’s standing next to the exit, holding Nyx’ restraints like a chain. “Sun is almost down, we have to go.”

Stiles goes to her side, and so does Derek.

“Not you,” Ada orders. “I can’t bring you where we need to deliver Nyx.”

“I’m not letting Stiles out of my sight. He keeps making deals and then we have to clean up.”

“He doesn’t have a voice. It’s required to make a deal.”

“Not the point.”

“I know. But you’re still not coming. I’ll bring him back in one piece in a couple hours, promise. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to deal here to keep you busy in the meantime.”

Before Derek can answer, Stiles opens the door for Ada and they leave the warehouse. The sooner they bring Nyx to the Queen the better. Ada makes them cross a street and then an abandoned field and the only thing breaking the silence is Nyx’ whimpering. Stiles doesn’t feel sorry for her.

“Don’t bring me to her. Don’t take me to Morgan,” she begs.

“Come on, Nyx,” Ada answers, her voice flat. “You know I have to. You and Kallan conspired against her authority.”

“We didn’t. we were just seeking a cure for Oren.” She turns to look at Stiles. “The man you ran over with your car is Oren, Mab’s son.”

He frowns at her. Who the hell is Mab and why should he care?

“The Queen of Air and Darkness,” Ada provides, and when Stiles’ frown deepens, she adds, “The Unseelie Queen. But it doesn’t matter.”

“It does! Morgan may reward you for killing him, as she’s a bloodthirsty devil, but…”

“She’s not,” Ada cuts, her voice raising. “She’s a good person.”

“She is certainly not, and if you take me to her, she will kill me. If I am very lucky, she will not torture me for eons first.”

“You killed people, Nyx. She’s only dispensing justice, that’s her prerogative.”

“Those I killed were monsters, not people. Werewolves and druids and harpies are not people. Even your hunters agree,” she adds, looking at Stiles. “Did you know that werewolves feed from eating your precious human hearts?”

“Vile propaganda,” Ada answers.

“Oren’s life is worth a thousand of theirs.”

“Oh, come on…”

“He was dying, Ada. You would have done…”

But before she can finish her sentence, she falls to her knees, hitting the ground harder than she should have. Morgan is standing before them, as regal as ever. Her nostrils flare for a second before her face settles in her usual neutral expression.

“Nyx,” she says, and the sound echoes in the clearing.

“Your Majesty.”

“I don’t need to hear the sound of your voice.” She snaps her fingers. “You have turned my favorite advisor against me, and you will get your punishment. But for now, be quiet. The adults are talking.”

Nyx doesn’t say a word, her head down, her hands still tied with the silver link, now reddened with her blood.

“Ada. Mr. Stilinski,” Morgan says, her voice almost softening. “I knew I could count on you. But what happened to your magic?”

She sounds genuinely curious, but Stiles is sure it’s only for show. Why does she care?

“I care, child, because your magic was a gift.”

Stiles suddenly remembers his research about fairies and their talent for reading minds. How could he have forgotten?

“Show me your wrists.”

Before he can decide whether or not to do it, his feet guide him to her side, his forearms offer themselves to her, and his bandages unwrap themselves. Morgan looks at the dark lines on his skin with attention, following each knot to the next. She takes his hand in hers, her skin colder than a Boston winter, and turns his wrists until she can see every line.

“Interesting design. This is meant to contain your magic, but not remove it entirely. Did something happen?”

“May I, Stiles?” Ada asks, and he nods in return. The Queen will learn about what happened eventually, and if Ada tells her, she doesn’t have to extract it from his mind. “His magic almost killed him. He poured it in the alchemists’ concoction as you suggested, but he couldn’t stop, and we had to forcefully break the link.”

The Queen weighs her words before releasing Stiles’ arms and saying, “That’s a shame.”

Stiles isn’t sure what part she’s referring to: his almost dying from her gift, his being saved by Ada, or his magic being blocked. He represses a shiver.

“However, this is only temporary, and I could lift it momentarily if you so wish.”

Stiles shakes his head. After the wedding, maybe, but he doesn’t need one more complication at the moment.

“Very well.”

With a flicker of her hand, the gauze stretches around his wrists again, a bit tighter than before, but he doesn’t flinch. He won’t give her the satisfaction. She barely looks at him anymore, though; she’s entirely focused on Nyx.

Stiles doesn’t believe in auras, because werewolves and magic are one thing, but auras sound to new-agey to be real. But even though her face is still as a doll, the Queen radiates furor and threat as she walks toward Nyx.

“Nyx. You are accused of seducing my most valued captain and convincing him of fomenting a rebellion against my power. You are accused of using him to provide valuable pieces you needed in order to heal an Unseelie Prince.”

Nyx called her victims monsters, but they’re not even that for Morgan. They are pieces on an invisible chessboard, and honestly, Stiles is sick of chess.

“How do you plead?” The Queen raises a hand and Nyx finally lifts her head.

“Your Majesty, everything I did was to protect Oren. I am begging you to see my intentions and to send me back to the Unseelie Court, where I will be punished by my own people.”

“I have already talked to my sister…”

“Queen Mab,” Ada whispers for Stiles, granting her a black look from Morgan.

“… And we are agreed that you are my guest, and as so, are subject to my rules. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts have found an equilibrium, and neither Queen wants to see it tilted for your preposterous ploy.”

Morgan waves at the line of trees, and their roots rise to form a beautiful table, soon covered with the most drool inducing food Stiles has ever seen. There are ten kinds of bread, tiny cakes that look like they’re made of clouds, golden biscuits with elegant lines drawn on them, cookies so big he’s not sure he’d take a second one, and glasses of assorted juices. He’s suddenly famished; he takes a step toward the table, but Ada catches him by the arm.

“Humans shouldn’t eat anything in the Fay world,” she whispers.

“You are my guest, Nyx,” the Queen repeats. “Eat.”

“No,” Nyx answers.

“Eat.” Morgan’s voice is loud enough to scare of a flight of birds in the distance.

“My Queen,” Ada tries.

“EAT.” This time, the ground under their feet shakes so badly, Stiles grabs Ada’s shoulder to keep himself standing. Nyx rises and takes a careful step.

“Mother, please,” Ada begs, and it takes Stiles a second to understand she’s talking to Morgan. This has way too many implications to get to it right now, but… Is he taking _Ada_ to the wedding? This is a bad idea, a really bad idea. He’s still distrustful of her, and his friends don’t like her either. This is going to be the most awkward reception.

Nyx is still advancing, and Ada continues her piece. “You don’t have to do this. Or at least, let us go before then.”

Morgan raises a hand and presses her fingers together, and Ada stops talking altogether. She lowers her head and Stiles wonders if he should follow suit. What’s going to happen? What does scare Ada so much? And then he remembers Lydia’s vision: three deaths, the first being Kallan and smelling like iron, the second one a black-haired woman wearing a long cape and smelling like almonds.

The food is poisoned. The Queen is asking Nyx to kill herself. Stiles makes one step in their direction, hopeful he can stop this, even though he’s not sure how, but Ada tightens her grip on his arm. She bites her lip and her entire face looks down. She begs him not to go without a word, and without a word, he obeys.

This is not how they do things. They don’t kill people. Well, they do, but not like that. This is an execution. But Ada is scared for him, he can see it in her face, and she knows what her mother is capable of. So instead of rushing towards certain death, towards the death Lydia has seen for him, he closes his eyes and takes Ada’s hand in his. She holds onto him tightly, and her warmth is the only thing that keeps him from freezing to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here goes almond. Only ash left now. There are 4 more chapters in this story (plus an epilogue), and next chapter will finally include the wedding!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	14. Probably not what I would have said

Stiles and Ada are still trembling when they get back to Beacon Hills. This time, it can’t be because they used his magic, since it cannot be accessed. But their experience sideways has shaken them both.

“I can’t get in yet,” Ada whispers. The Queen gave her voice back, but Stiles wasn’t so lucky.

They’re standing behind the Stilinski house’s backyard and Stiles gets it. It’s night now, and the house is illuminated, and it looks warm, safe, and comfortable, but they’re not ready for that. Not after seeing Nyx seizing on the ground for agonizingly long minutes while the Queen fussed around their arrangements for the wedding.

And the overwhelming smell… Sweet and bitter at the same time, and Stiles isn’t sure he would have recognized almonds if Lydia hadn’t used the word. But she would know, of course, because she knows everything. Including the fact that he’s going to die in a fire. He only thought about his own death once before, while the Nogitsune and he were connected. As in, he was dying and slowly losing hope. But this time is different, because this is not a slow slope he’s sliding down, it’s a steep hill he’s hurtling down too fast to stop, and for some reason, there’s a fire at the bottom.

He still hasn’t released Ada’s fingers, but she hasn’t made a move either. He still doesn’t like her, but he understands her a little better, he thinks. She’s a human who’s been raised by the Seelie Queen, of course she’s damaged goods. She doesn’t know how the human world works, and she’s been raised by a cruel woman, because no matter what Ada thinks, you don’t kill people in front of your children when you’re a well-balanced person. He wishes he could tell her all that, but for now, the contact between their hands seems to help.

“She’s not usually like that,” Ada softly explains, and Stiles can hear the knot in her throat. “She loved Kallan, and more than that, she trusted him.”

Stiles isn’t sure about her priorities, but sure, that probably makes sense for the Fay.

“She’s on the edge. And she loves me, I know that; but in her eyes, I’ll never be as good as her real daughter. How could I be? I’m not even Fay.”

She chuckles, but it’s a sad sound, and Stiles presses her hand tighter in his. There’s something similar in the two of them. They don’t belong anymore; she cannot play her sister’s role, and he cannot fool himself anymore by pretending he’s happy in Boston.

And so when she launches herself into his arms, it takes him a second to understand what is happening, but then he holds her tightly. She’s almost as tall as he is, so she rests her cheek against his shoulder, while he pats awkwardly her back. In his defense, he hated her a couple hours before, and now she’s… crying?

Her sobs are almost silent, but so is the edge of the forest where they’re standing, and he cannot possibly mistake the sound. When she finally steps back, though, he looks away to give her time to dry her tears and acts as though nothing happened.

“Shall we?” she finally asks, her voice a bit stronger. He nods.

They’re closer than they were before when they enter the house, and Stiles’ father acknowledges it with a frown, before letting them in. The three of them sit in the kitchen and Stiles could figure at least six different ways he could break the silence, if he still had his voice. He’s seriously thinking of going upstairs to pick up the bell, when his father finally decides to talk.

“I’m not sure how to talk to you with the whole…” He waves his hand in front of his mouth. “You know.”

It’s not a question, but Stiles still nods, because his dad looks lost.

“Also, I’m feeling a bit out of the loop again. Can I talk in front of this young lady whose name escapes me?”

Ada looks at Stiles, who thinks for a moment. Honestly, what could his father say that the Queen doesn’t already know? As long as he doesn’t take out the baby pictures, it should be fine, so he nods again. Taking it as permission, Ada offers her hand.

“My name’s Ada. Stiles is taking me to the wedding tomorrow.”

“He is,” the Sheriff answers, dubious, and Stiles gives him a thumbs up and his fakest smile. Stiles’ father shakes Ada's hand. “Good. At least you won’t spend the day looking at Lydia like she’s the only girl in the room. Right?”

First of all, he doesn’t look at Lydia all the time. He only gives her his undivided attention when she requests it. So okay, maybe he glances at her once in a while, but he does the same with all his friends. He’s lost them all once—well, they all lost him, but the result was the same—and he’s still scared sometimes that they will disappear when he turns his back.

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Ada. Now I have one question for Stiles: are you in danger? Are we supposed to be on our guard tomorrow, or will this be a normal wedding?”

Stiles holds three fingers to tell his dad this wasn’t one question, but the Sheriff doesn’t seem to understand.

“You asked three questions,” Ada explains, “which makes it hard for him to answer.”

“Right.” The Sheriff rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Are you in danger?”

Stiles shakes his head. This is technically not a lie. He’s not in any more danger than he’s been since Lydia had her premonition, is he?

“So, normal wedding?”

Stiles shrugs with a smile. How could any wedding including werewolves, banshees, hunters and the odd kanima be any normal?

“Okay, I get your point. So let me tell you about my evening. I got a call from Derek who told me that something that doesn’t concern the sheriff department happened, but that they’re managing. Which I highly doubt, since I heard Peter’s voice in the background, and I’m not sure any situation can ever be managed if he’s in the vicinity.

“Derek then insisted that whenever you came back, I should check some injury on the back of your neck, which I will do in a minute. Scott called to check if your speech was ready for tomorrow, I told him knowing you, ten speeches were ready for tomorrow. I didn’t insist on the fact you cannot talk, he seems to have momentarily forgotten in the effervescence of… everything.”

Well, either that or nobody’s told him yet. Stiles sits still as his father removes his bandage. There’s only so much he can look at while staying immobile, but his eyes catch the reflection of the Sheriff’s frown in the window, and for a moment, he holds his breath. It’s like the first time he went to the doctor in Boston, and she said ‘hm’ and he thought he had some deadly virus. As it happens, he had a cold—laryngitis, she said, whatever that means—and she was only wondering where she had put her pen.

“That’s not pretty.” The sheriff pushes Stiles head down. “But it doesn’t look infected.” He presses his hand over Stiles’ forehead. “And you don’t have a fever. I’ll clean this up and redo the dressing, and we’ll check it again tomorrow, okay?”

“Shouldn’t it be healed by now?” Ada asks with curiosity.

“No.” The sheriff chuckles. “Humans don’t heal as fast as supernaturals, from what I’ve seen.”

“I’m human,” she admits, and Stiles dances a jig on the inside. He knew it. On the outside, he forces himself not to react, but a smile betrays him to Ada, who bites her lip. “But my mother uses magic to heal me. I’ve never had an injury for more than a few minutes.”

“That’s handy.”

The Sheriff disinfects the wound before changing the dressing carefully, and then wishes them good night and leaves for bed. Stiles wants to follow, but Theo is still using his room. Even though he’s slept until mid-afternoon, Stiles is exhausted and just wants to go to bed. He takes his suitcase and the garment bag containing his suit, and Ada on his heel, goes out. Someone has apparently brought his car back and he silently thanks them, whoever they are—even though the most likely candidates are Ethan and Jackson—and then does once more when he finds the key under the sun visor. Ada doesn’t say a thing and climbs in the passenger seat.

Stiles isn’t sure where he’s driving until he parks in front of Derek’s building. He still doesn’t know whether it’s a good idea when he finds himself standing in front of the sliding front door, his luggage in his hands, Ada by his side. And he’s pretty sure it’s not when Derek opens, wearing what can either be very comfortable sports clothes or his pajamas.

Derek’s face relaxes when he sees Stiles. “Theo is still using your bed. Come on in.”

Derek sets them up in the guest room with the twin beds, and then offers them a late dinner made of Chinese leftovers. Then, they settle in the couch, and when Ada wonders about the TV, Stiles puts a kid’s film on. She’s never seen a movie before, and he doesn’t want to scare her. She laughs with the heroes, bites her lip during a tense scene and cheers when they win their first battle, and then, she struggles to keep her eyes open and Stiles takes it as their cue. They have a long day tomorrow.

But what's so easy to Ada proves itself impossible to Stiles. He watches her in the other bed, lying peacefully, her face relaxed, almost smiling, and he turns his back, because it doesn't help. Then, he wonders if he thought of taking his cufflinks back in Boston, but now is not the time to check. Then, there’s an annoying noise coming from another room, like a clock ticking. The more he tries to stay immobile, the more he tenses.

After hours spent turning and tossing, Stiles gives up and leaves his bed. Unsure what to do, he picks up the book that's been dangling from his open suitcase and goes downstairs. He's not even sure what it is, but even a dime novel would be better than trying his best not to wake Ada up while being himself incapable to sleep. Apparently, he's not the only one, because Derek is sitting on the couch reading too. Without a word—obviously—Stiles sits by the werewolf’s side and opens his book. _Rivers of London_ , good one.

Derek doesn't even acknowledge his presence at first, but after a while, he opens the coffee table and waves at the blankets inside. Stiles picks one and puts it over his legs before getting back to his book. The plot is enthralling, but the fatigue finally catches up to him halfway through and he gives in, closing his eyes for one minute and opening them again when his eyelids can't keep the sun away anymore.

He's lying on the couch, the blanket covering him from head to toe, and Derek must have finally gone to bed. Stiles sits up yawning, wondering if his turning and tossing was what kept Derek up until the middle of the night. Probably. Stiles is a bad guest. To apologize, he goes to the kitchen and opens all the cupboards and the fridge until he's found everything to make French toast. Food is a good means of communication in the absence of words.

Indeed, nobody complains about their sleep during breakfast. Ada looks rested, her face glowing in the morning light, but she’s somehow tenser than yesterday. Derek fills his plate three times and tries out every single accompaniment Stiles has prepared, much to Stiles' joy.

Then Derek and Ada offer to do the dishes, so Stiles decides to take a shower. He protects the henna artwork with cellophane before borrowing the bathroom. The water is searing but it barely seems to warm his bones. It’s like the chill he feels comes from inside and all the warmth he's stolen these last few days hasn't been able to reach his core. Stupid magic. It should come with a warning—and a better refund policy, henna itches.

When he gets out, there's a text waiting for him. His dad is looking for him and wants him to call. He removes the notification and puts on his suit. And no, he didn't forget his cufflinks, or more likely, Lydia put them in his suitcase for him; there were a gift from her after all. He's lost a bit of weight apparently, nothing alarming, but he has to tighten his belt one more hole than usual.

Downstairs, Ada smiles at him before biting her lip, and Derek acknowledges him with a nod before going back to putting the dishes away. He gives the werewolf his phone and shows him his dad’s text.

“I’ll call him. You should head to Lydia’s anyway.”

Stiles tilts his head and pouts. He doesn’t understand.

“You date is going to need a dress.”

_That._ Details. But of course Lydia will have a spare dress, and even though they’re not the same size, she’ll find a way. She used to share clothes with Allison, who was about Ada’s size, after all. So after another promise of Derek to call the Sheriff and a reassurance that it’s okay to leave his suitcase in the guest room, Stiles drives Ada to Lydia’s.

She’s never learned about small talk, apparently, and remains silent the entire drive. Stiles puts the radio on and switches stations until he finds one that doesn’t make her grimace. Soft pop plays in the car until they arrive.

Lydia opens the door, and she must have been up for hours, because her hair has been curled and styled into a ballerina bun, complete with a light gray ribbon. Her makeup is more sophisticated than usual, and she’s wearing the ruby red lipstick she bought a couple months ago and never had an occasion to use until now. She’s gorgeous, and that’s apparently what it takes for Stiles to realize he’s not in love with her anymore.

His heart doesn’t beat louder at her sight anymore. He loves her, she’ll always be his friend, but he isn’t in love with her anymore. He’s finally closing that chapter of his life, and it’s both relieving and terrifying. The ten-year plan is shattered, he doesn’t have Lydia anymore, his job sucks, and Boston is way too cold. What is he supposed to do with the rest of life, now that he’s had everything he wanted, and either lost it or hated it?

Well, that’s a thought for another day. A day where he can voice it for example. Right now, he has a wedding to prepare for, and he isn’t sure how to explain the situation to Lydia, but one look at Ada is enough.

“Are you asking me to dress her for the wedding? Are we friends with her now?”

Stiles shrugs with a smile. Maybe not friends just yet.

“Okay, so friendly-ish. Come on in. My mom is at your house, don’t worry.”

Two minutes later, Stiles is sitting on the couch with the precise instructions not to move, not to run away after the first person that asks him, and not to try anything that could end with his suit being stained or ripped. That doesn’t leave him much amplitude to occupy himself and he regrets leaving his book at Derek’s. Instead, he plays the latest addictive game on his phone while the girls—well, Lydia really—giggle upstairs.

When they finally get back twenty-three levels later, Ada is wearing a knee-length powder blue dress that perfectly compliments both her eyes and Stiles’ tie. Her hair is up in a milkmaid braid, and Lydia has put just a touch of rose pink on her lips—Stiles is very _au fait_ with lipsticks tones, thanks to living with Lydia—, currently curled into a shy smile. Stiles smiles back and gives her a double thumbs up. Lydia is a magician.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

Stiles nods.

“By the way, if my mom asks, those are not her shoes. They just look eerily alike. Now scat, I still have to put my dress on before going over to Malia’s to give her a hand, and then I’ll have to check on Kira, because I’m pretty sure the skinwalkers didn’t give makeup lessons. All that in the next…” She looks at her watch. “Three hours. This is going to be fine,” she adds to herself. “There is ample time.”

She doesn’t sound convinced by her own words, so Stiles and Ada take their leave. Three hours is a very long time to wait while dressed in a three-piece suit, and Stiles lists the possible ways to occupy it. He can’t barge in on any of his friends, who are currently preparing themselves. He can’t go home, because Natalie is there and he will get enough of her disdain at the wedding.

On a whim, he drives Ada to the preserve, and she follows without a word as he leads her to Lookout Point. Once there, her jaw drops at the view. Beacon Hills spreads under them, and even during the day, it’s a beautiful sight.

“It’s so big,” she manages after a while.

And to Stiles, it’s not, not anymore. Not now that he’s seen the world outside, but to her, this must _be_ the world outside. Outside of the fairy realm, outside of the Queen’s antics. She steps forward and he catches her arm. He doesn’t trust the edge much.

“Are there other cities like that?”

He nods, and then point at Beacon Hills, before making a small circle with his hands. Once she looks like she understands, he widens the circle.

“There are bigger ones?”

He nods again. Her eyes widen.

“I wish I could stay here.”

Stiles wants to ask her why she can’t, why she’s never seen the world she belongs to, what the Queen has on her, but he can’t. It’s a bit strange to see the woman, who was so blasé back in the Fay realm, suddenly so curious. She asks lots of questions that he can answer by nodding or shaking his head, and when they finally run dry, a comfortable silence falls.

The next time Stiles looks at his watch, he almost panics. Three hours wasn’t such a long time after all, and if they don’t leave right now, they’ll be late. He stands up and leads Ada to the Jeep, and they arrive at the church just as people are entering. They join the crowd, and Scott welcomes him with a sigh of relief.

“You’re cutting it close,” he says, before hugging Stiles. “I'm getting married today, can you believe it? It’s such an adult thing to do, but I still feel like I’m a kid, you know?”

Stiles chuckles soundlessly, and Scott realizes that his best friend has been silent too long.

“Did you lose your voice? You have a speech to give!”

There are no simple gestures to explain deals, both with fairies and sour wolves, no matter how much Stiles tries to think about it.

“Yes, he’s lost his voice,” Ada provides. “But his speech is already written and Derek agreed to give it in his place.”

“Good. Who are you?”

“I’m Ada. I’m Stiles’ date.”

“Oh, of course. Should I call you Princess or something?”

Ada smiles, but her eyes shine a bit too much for it to be anything but forced. “Ada will be fine.”

Scott leads her to the third row and tells her to sit next to Isaac and Inès, and then Stiles and he take their rightful places next to the pastor.

The wedding ceremony itself is boring, but in a good way. Malia is gorgeous in a fairytale princess kind of way—no pun intended—, Scott beams like he’s meeting her for the first time, they say their vows with so much love Stiles is sure it’s visible from space. And he doesn’t even lose the rings!

Ada comes to Stiles’ side as everyone follows the newlyweds out; he offers her his arm and she takes it. Outside, there’s a queue to congratulate Scott and Malia, but Stiles doesn’t join it. He can’t talk, and even if he could, he’s not sure what to say. He’s terribly jealous of them, because they have each other, and he feels like he’s losing his best friend to his ex and vice-versa, which is stupid because this is not what’s happening, but he can’t help what he’s feeling.

After that, there are photos and champagne in the park, and Scott looks so content it’s contagious. For a moment, Stiles forgets about his own life and revels in his best friend’s happiness. They take a picture all together, everyone that has been part of Scott’s pack at one point, with Ada and Inès waiting on the sidelines. Stiles wants to keep that one, to remind himself of a time where he belonged.

Afterwards, Inès kidnaps him and leads him to the bathroom.

“You were supposed to come this morning,” she says, her accent a bit thicker. “I need to remove the _henné_.”

He removes his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and takes the gauze off. She then goes to work, first covering his wrists with baby oil, and then slowly removing the paste with a metal file. It takes a long time, and he’s grateful for her gentleness, because it looks like it could hurt. Under the dark paste, he sees the real henna color appear, a rich orange with darker parts where the design is thicker. Not for the first time, he wonders about getting a tattoo. Well, not this and not on his wrists, but someday he’ll do it. And with a tinge in his heart, he realizes that probably no, since he’s going to burn in a fire.

“Do I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. She’s almost finished anyway, and then she removes the baby oil with a handkerchief. She was really prepared. As he rolls his sleeves back down, she gives him some advice about taking care of the henna and making it last, but he barely listens. It’s not going to last anyway. They exit the bathroom, and the second she leaves his side, the panic he was containing swallows him. The pressure on his chest becomes so heavy that he’s not sure how he’s still standing. He’s going to die, and since he doesn’t know when, or why, or how exactly, he doesn’t have a way to stop it.

Everything he’s going to miss crosses his mind at the same time. He’ll never see the new _Star Wars_. He’ll never meet Scott and Malia’s kids. He’ll leave his father all alone. He’ll never get to introduce Matagot and Derek. He’ll probably never say a word again, and there’s suddenly so much he wants to say.

“Stiles?”

He wants to tell his dad that he loves him more than anything in this stupid world. That he would do anything to protect him, even if it means ending bloodied and broken like it has in the past.

“Let’s get out.”

He wants to tell Scott that he’s happy for him. That he’s proud of him. That the one thing he’s missed the most in Boston is his best friend. That he would still walk through a thousand fires to save him.

“Breathe.”

He wants to tell Lydia that even though they didn’t work, he was happy with her for a while. That he’s sorry he wasn’t what she needed. That he wishes he could be there the day she inevitably gets her Fields Medal.

“Look at me.”

He wants to tell Derek that he really likes the person he’s become. That he’s made the last few days bearable. That he trusts him with his life despite the lies and the secrets.

A hand forces him to look up and his eyes meet Derek’s.

“You’re having a panic attack,” the werewolf states, and it’s like the world is suddenly in color again. It’s all too big, and too harsh, and too bright, and too fast.

Stiles feels his lungs burn as they struggle to fill with air, his heart painful as it beats faster than he can bear, and he can’t stand anymore. Everything is heavy, and the only thing that keeps him from falling is his hold on Derek’s forearms.

“You’re okay, Stiles. We’re at Scott’s wedding reception, we’re standing in the garden. It’s beautiful, and it’s safe. You’re safe.”

Derek aimlessly describes the reception, the hall, the flowers, the champagne, the dresses, the music, slowly pulling Stiles back to reality. Away from his fear, until he can breathe again. Stiles lets go of Derek’s arms and sits on the ground, caring very little for the state of his suit. His friend sits by his side.

“If there’s anything I can do…” Derek starts.

Stiles shakes his head.

“Then can I get the speech I’m supposed to give tonight?”

Stiles searches his pockets for the pile of paper, pages torn from his notebooks. He reads the beginning of the various versions until he finds the one he wants and gives it to Derek.

“Okay,” the werewolf says after a while. “Probably not what I would have said, but that’s very… Stiles. Come on.”

Derek stands up and offers his hand to Stiles, who accepts it. And for the first time tonight, Stiles really looks at his friend, who’s wearing black slacks and a dark green button up shirt, and holy shit does he clean up nice.

Not the time. Not that there’s ever going to be a time. Stiles casts a shaky smile at Derek and follows him back inside.


	15. There are no wolves in California

“Hello everyone.” Derek clears his throat. Stiles has never seen him so uneasy before. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Derek, Malia’s cousin and Scott’s friend. But tonight, I’m merely there as an understudy, as I’m going to read Stiles’ speech. He’s Scott’s best friend and Malia’s ex, which makes him equally qualified and unqualified for this. Stiles, stand up.”

Stiles obeys and waves at the crowd like he’s the Queen of England. On his right, Scott chuckles.

“Stiles thought it would be an excellent idea to lose his voice a day before giving this speech, so please keep in my mind that the following are his words, not mine. Thankfully, words are his superpower, so this should go well.”

Stiles is strangely moved by this last sentence. He always used his words as a weapon, but he was never sure that anyone noticed before.

“People will tell you that Malia was raised by wolves as if it’s a bad thing,” Derek starts. “Well, first of all, and I can’t believe I have to say it one more time, there are no wolves in California.”

Most of the pack laugh at this. At this point, it’s become a running joke.

“She was raised by coyotes, it’s very different. But more importantly, it’s not a bad thing, because it’s taught her everything she knows.

“It’s taught her that when you want something, you have to fight for it every step of the way. Even when it’s hard, even when it hurts. That’s how she opened her gym, and that’s what she’s now teaching those crazy kids who still come week after week to learn self-defense.

“It’s taught her that when you finally get what you want, you must protect it. She would sacrifice everything to shield those she loves, and I’m so lucky to be her friend. Well, to be perfectly honest, I think we can get a little credit for teaching her that. It took us a while to tame her. And I’m still pretty sure she’s wearing military boots under that beautiful dress of hers.”

“Hey,” Malia interrupts. “I’m not. Those are sneakers. Awesome sneakers that make colorful lights.”

The room laughs, Derek smiles, and Stiles could stay in that moment forever. This moment where his words didn’t fail him.

“And finally, it’s taught her to cherish what she has every day. She knows that sometimes, life isn’t fair, and that you should get the most of your loved ones. And she knows that family is the one you make, not the one that made you. No offense, Peter.”

At next table, Peter shrugs, causing another round of laughs from the people who know about their family history.

“But enough about Malia. She’s cool and everything, but Scott’s my best friend, and he’s the one who made me his best man, so let me talk about him for a little while. Scott’s my brother, and don’t you listen to what my dad and his mom have to say on the subject. What do they know?

“People will tell you that Scott is too trusting like it’s a bad thing. And well, I’m people, and I’ve said that a lot. I even told him once that it is my job not to trust anyone because he trusts everyone. I was right, because we definitely couldn’t trust the guy I was talking about then, and yet I couldn’t have been more wrong, because he’s changed into a friend since then, and it’s all thanks to Scott.

“Trusting people has taught Scott that people are capable of the worst, that they can and will stab you in the back, but that they can also be better. That people can change, even if it’s hard, even if it hurts. That when you give people a chance, they can become more than anyone ever reckoned. That they can rise above that dark spot they thought would be theirs forever. That when you offer them a hand, sometimes, they’re the one who helps you stand.

“It’s taught him that everyone has dreams they’re terrified they’ll never achieve, and that sometimes, all it takes is for someone else to believe in those dreams to make them achievable. Even if they’re crazy, even if they’re stupid. Even if they can’t ever be admitted aloud.

“And finally, it’s taught him that when you love someone, you have to work even harder to reach those goals. Because it all seems easy, because you think it will just come to you naturally, but it won’t. Love is hard work, and anyone that tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something. Most likely the latest rom-com.

“So Scott, I give you my Malia. And I trust that you will help her become a better version of herself, that you will believe in her dreams enough to make them true, and that you will work very hard for this marriage to work.

“And Malia, I give you my Scott. And I trust that you will fight for him every single day of your lives, that you will protect him from harm, and that you will cherish him with all your heart.

“So ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to Malia and Scott. They’ve walked a long way to reach this point, and thankfully, the path from here is even longer. Cheers!”

The last word echoes in the room, and as Stiles puts his glass to his lips, savoring the nice champagne Isaac and Inès helped Scott pick. As he sits down and sets his flute back on the table, Scott catches him into a tight hug.

“Thank you, man, your speech was awesome.”

Stiles pats Scott’s back, happier than he’s been in weeks. He feels all the warmth and love that’s been missing from his life for too long. He forces himself to stay in the moment, not to think about what comes next. He inhales deeply, reveling in Scott’s familiar smell, and if his eyes shine a bit too much when he lets go, it’s because he’s content for once.

He turns to look at Derek, who’s smiling easily. “You did good,” the werewolf says, and the rare compliment fills Stiles with a second wave of warmth.

After dinner, people start dancing, led by an uncharacteristically delicate Malia—wearing sneakers that indeed light up the skirt of her white dress—and a smitten Scott. Stiles looks at them for a while, but then it becomes too hard. He cannot help but imagine Lydia and he in their places, and even now it hurts. Not because he’s still in love with her, but because he feels so lost and so alone. The ballroom becomes too small and he has to leave.

There are a few people outside smoking and he avoids them, going deeper into the gardens. He tries to focus on Scott thanking him, on Derek congratulating him, but the list of things he’s never going to do still dances in his head.

He’s never getting married. He’s never going to Europe to meet Isaac’s pack and Jackson’s friends. He’s never going to tell his friends how much they matter to him. How much they shaped him.

“Stiles?”

He turns and sees Ada, still beautiful in Lydia’s dress. She’s removed the shoes and is holding them in her hand.

“Are you okay? You left in a hurry.”

He nods, because if he lets anything out, he’s going to break down, and he can’t do that again.

“I’m not convinced, but okay. What about I teach you another spell? It’ll keep your mind busy.”

Stiles nods eagerly. And then he remembers the tattoo and shows her his wrists.

“It’s a perception spell, just like the one you casted to find the notebooks. It doesn’t require much magic, and it should work despite your… shackles. Plus, it’s the perfect spell to teach you about basics.”

Stiles purses his lips, and then nods. Sure, why not. Anything is better than being prisoner to his own thoughts.

“The goal is for you to see through a low-level glamour. So first, you must understand how it works. Glamour doesn’t physically change someone’s appearance, it changes the perception other people have. For example, my mother put a glamour on me for my safety. I’m still the same, but your eyes see what she wants them to see. Do you understand?”

Stiles nods and idly wonders if he would be able to put a glamour on someone, could he still access to his magic.

“So what you’re going to do is close your eyes and imagine you’re wearing glasses my mother gave you. Then, you’ll remove them and open your eyes again, and you should see my real face.”

In a perfect world, that's what would happen, but of course, reality is much less fun. What happens instead is that he focuses on the image of himself with glasses, which looks absolutely ridiculous, and he feels his wrists burning. He opens his eyes, ready to fight flames engulfing him, but there are none. Instead, the henna is shining for an instant before shutting down, along with the pain.

“Don’t worry,” Ada says, her tone assured. “This is merely your magic rebelling against the shackles the druids put on you. It won’t hurt… Well, it will hurt, but it will not injure you. Did it work?”

One look at her tells him it didn’t, so he shakes his head.

“You didn’t will it enough. Come on, Stiles, ever since you’ve met me, you’ve been wondering why the Seelie Queen’s daughter is human, and you’re that close to finally knowing.” She bites her lip, before walking in a circle around him like a predator. “Just one little spell and you’ll get your answers. And then, we can finish your part of the deal together.”

Stiles would love to say that the last part gets him, but it’s a lie. Not that he doesn’t want to get free of this stupid deal, but right now, his curiosity is stronger and he wants to know who the hell Ada is. This is why he was attracted to a career in law enforcement: finding out the truth.

So he closes his eyes, focuses on the image of himself wearing glasses, and wills it with all his might. And when his wrists start burning, he focuses even more, pushing the pain to the back of his thoughts. Then, it feels like something snaps and suddenly, the pressure his magic has been building for a day is gone.

He opens his eyes, and in front of him stands Allison. She’s wearing a threatening smile like Derek wears a leather jacket, but her dimples are still marked and she’s just Allison. But she can’t be here, because she died. She died because of him. He struggles to catch his breath, and maybe it’s because his brain is not fueled by as much oxygen as it ought to be, but it takes him way too long to put two and two together.

The woman is looking at is Ada, she’s still wearing Lydia’s dress and holding Natalie’s shoes. Also, she still has her cold blue eyes, just like when he died. She’s Allison’s ghost, the one that’s been haunting him for days. And Allison is her real appearance. How is it possible?

“Hi,” she says, waving a hand, and suddenly he knows why Ada’s voice has been familiar all along: it’s Allison’s. The tone is all wrong, heavier and rougher, but the voice underneath is Allison’s. “You and I need to talk,” she adds, her smile turning into a hard expression.

But Stiles doesn’t want her to talk. He doesn’t want to hear whatever she has to say, because it can’t be good. He tries to walk away, but she’s still circling him like a vulture and cuts off his retreat.

“Have you ever heard the word _changeling_ , Stiles?” Her tone is still so very wrong, cold and cutting, so far from Allison’s usual exuberance.

He has heard of changelings before, but only in novels, and as much as he likes the _Dresden Files_ , he’s pretty sure they’re not a reliable source of real-world lore. He shakes his head.

“Changelings are Fay that have been switched with humans after birth. The Queen had a deal with Victoria Argent. I am Victoria’s daughter. I am Allison. And the girl you killed, well…” She smirks, even though it doesn’t seem to amuse her in the least. “She was Morgan’s daughter, Ada. You’ve pissed off the Seelie Queen, Stiles, and she wants you dead.”

Stiles’ eyes open wide. Allison was never really Allison, that’s what Ada’s saying? But still, whoever she was, she was their friend. She was still part of the pack, back when it was still tight. And having Ada telling him that while wearing Allison’s face isn’t helping. His heartbeat is so strong he can feel it in the tip of his fingers, and he can’t remove the image of the blade going through Allison’s chest from his mind.

And then he remembers the deal. He has to bring the Queen her daughter’s killer. That’s him. She’s played him. Everything snaps into place: Allison haunting him; Lydia’s vision with the three deaths; the Queen’s plan.

“Can you imagine what your Allison would tell you if she was there?” The smirk disappears from her face, replaced by a trembling lip and lost eyes. “Why did you kill me?” she asks, and Ada’s gone. It’s Allison talking, her voice pleading. “You were my friend, and I’m dead because of you.”

Stiles puts his hands over his ears, trying to erase her voice, but it’s still resounding in his head. Probably because he’s had so many nightmares of Allison accusing him, and rightly so. Everyone’s told him it wasn’t his fault. Everyone reminded him that am evil spirit was using his hands and that he wasn’t responsible, but he was.

Because they left a door open, Scott, Allison and him, when they temporarily died to save their parents, and the Nogitsune possessed _him_ , because he was the weakest one. Allison was strong-willed, and Scott became a true alpha, but Stiles wasn’t like that. He left his mind wide open, easy to take over for the Nogitsune.

The Nogitsune killed Allison, not him, but Stiles was still responsible. He should have fought harder, he should have pushed him away instead of playing go in his own mind. He should have called for help, insisted more when they thought he was just tired. He should have been stronger, but instead his hands are drenched in blood, and not only Allison’s.

Maybe the Queen is right, maybe he deserves to die. And maybe Lydia is right, maybe he should burn in hell for what he’s done.

“We were supposed to protect each other. You were supposed to protect me, and instead, you had a demon pass his sword through me. I bled to death. I was seventeen.” Her voice trembles at the last words.

His entire body shuddering, Stiles barely notices the burn in his wrists until it’s too late and the whole henna pattern is gone. He loses what small control he has over his magic, and the image that fills his mind, him burning in hell, becomes real. Flames swallow him and it’s hot, so very hot. Unable to control his shaky legs, he falls to his knees and starts crying.

 _I’m so sorry, Allison,_ he wants to say. _I failed you. I failed them all, but mostly you. You trusted me and I couldn’t save you._

He wonders what would have happened if she’d survived, and with each new thought, it’s becoming harder to breathe. Would Isaac have gone to France? Would Scott have married Malia? Would Lydia have known better than to date him?

His eyes sting because of the smoke, so he closes them. His lungs are burning from within, his heart is beating louder than a gunshot, and somewhere deep inside, he knows that he should run away, but he can’t. He’s paralyzed, his legs refusing to move, his arms useless weight at his side. And something presses over him, heavier than his guilt, keeping him from standing up.

“What the hell are you doing to him? Stop it!” He’s too far gone to recognize the voice, but it reminds him of floral patterns and broken dreams.

“I’m not doing anything to him,” Allison’s voice answers. This one, he can’t forget, no matter how far gone he is. “He’s doing it to himself.”

“Stiles, snap out of this!”

But it’s too late. He’s dying. He can’t even stay on his knees, the pressure is too strong. He falls on his shoulder, and the pain barely registers.

“What did you do?” Broken-Dreams asks.

“I only reminded him of the truth. He killed Allison, and so he deserves to die.”

“He did not!” She huffs furiously. “Stiles, don’t listen to her. You did not kill Allison, the Nogitsune did. Come back to me.”

“Lydia, go find Scott,” another voice interrupts. An e-reader and a feeling of safety are all that come to Stiles’ mind. _Safety_ , he scoffs. Why is he thinking of safety when he’s the one endangering everyone he loves? “And you, get the hell out of here. If I see again, I’ll tear you apart.”

Then, a shadow walks toward him, dark against the flames, but he still can’t move. The shadow sits next to him.

“You never do things half way,” the warm voice says. Derek, Stiles’ mind finally provides. The werewolf sighs, unconcerned by the fire and flames around him. “When you were possessed by the Nogitsune, it sent your dad a text pretending to be you, telling him not to look for you. Your dad showed it to me afterwards, and I realized that you had some control. I don’t remember the content exactly, but there were three capital letters, and they spelled APB. The Nogitsune wanted to be left alone, but you asked us to look for you. We’re the ones who failed you, Stiles. We were supposed to protect you, but we missed your cries for help. I’m not letting that happen again. So take a deep breath in and hold it. I’ll do it with you.”

Derek takes Stiles’ hand and presses it against his own chest. Somewhere in Stiles’ foggy mind, he remembers corrupting whatever memories the Nogitsune tried to access when he wrote that text. It had been so hard, he had to push with all his might, and he had been certain it hadn’t worked until now.

He takes a shaky breath in, but he can’t hold it. Another try or three go unsuccessful as well.

“You’re not weak, Stiles. You can get through this. Can you stop the flames now?”

But Stiles doesn’t know how. He doesn’t even how he’s casting them. His friends have tried to help by containing his magic, but once more, he couldn’t just listen to them. He still thought he knew better. How stupid can he be?

“You’re in control, Stiles. I know that, because the flames aren’t burning me. They’re not even warm. You’re spiraling into panic, and yet you’re protecting me. You just need to focus on breathing and dispelling those flames.”

Stiles hasn’t felt in control of anything for days, to be honest. The Seelie Queen has more control over his life than he has. But Derek has one point: Stiles cannot hurt him. He closes his eyes and finally takes half a breath, enough to remind his lungs how they should work. He holds it for barely a second, but the next one comes easier, and after much too long minutes, he finally feels centered enough to try and control his magic.

He pushes himself off the ground, ending on his knees and hands, and anchors himself to the Earth under him. Using his renewed strength, he focuses on his magic, on the warm ball within his chest. It’s shaky at best, and it feels a lot like when he poured it into Theo’s serum, like it’s leaving him. But this time, he refuses to let it go. He imagines his magic like a bucket in a well, and he pulls on the rope. It’s slow and painful, and he just wants to sleep, but he knows he can. If he goes to sleep now, he’ll never wake up.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s working,” Derek says, his voice a lot less tense than a few minutes before.

So Stiles does it. Fired up, he tries to pull faster, harder, but the rope slips in his fingers, and so does his magic. He loses control for an instant, and the renewed smoke makes him cough. After that, he plays it safe, going slower until all his magic is back into the ball inside his chest. Then and only then, he opens his eyes.

The flames are gone, and Derek looks at him with a fond smile. There are still signs of tension on his face, lines on his forehead and jaw clenched, but Stiles can still see the relief, echoing his own, and without thinking, he throws himself at Derek, slipping his arms around the werewolf’s neck and pressing his face into his chest.

“Hey there, Stiles,” Derek whispers. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

And Stiles starts crying. He’s not even sure why, but he feels so light, so empty, that the wind could wreak him. Like an elastic that’s been pulled to its limit and is about to break. And Derek’s holding him, patting his back, making him safe enough. Soon enough, he’s sobbing like a kid. He’s not even sad, not even scared anymore; there’s almost nothing left inside him, and whatever remains needs to be let out.

Derek shushes him, whispering reassurances over and over again. The tears finally dry down, and Stiles is exhausted. He struggles to keep his eyes open and he wants to close them and stay here for a few hours. There’s a tinge in his neck, and his knees are numb, and he’s oh so very cold, but he’s okay here.

“Come on, let’s get you up,” Derek suggests, and Stiles numbly lets himself be pulled back to his feet.

He doesn’t think he can stand by himself until he does. A breath of wind makes him shiver and he rubs his arms up and down. Derek offers him his jacket and he accepts easily.

Then, Lydia comes back, and with her Scott and Malia, stomping around the grass in her soon-not-to-be-white dress.

“He’s okay,” Derek reassures them. “Well, in the vicinity of okay.”

Lydia pulls Stiles into a hug and he returns it mechanically.

“You scared me,” she murmurs. “I thought I’d lost you. And I can’t lose you. You’re my best friend, you know?”

Her words remind him how to feel, a little bit. How to let himself be taken care of by his friends. Her arms are warm and welcoming, and he waves a hand at Scott, inviting him to join them. Malia doesn’t hesitate to include herself as well, and for the first time in years, Stiles belongs. He casts a smile over Lydia’s shoulder to Derek, but the werewolf isn’t looking at them. His hands in his pockets, he’s staring at the ground, like he’s ashamed to even be looking at something intimate. They will have to work on that.

“Group hugs are awesome and everything,” Scott mumbles against Stiles’ shoulder, “but can someone tell me what’s been happening ever since we freed Malia? I feel like I’ve been kept our of the loop, and I’m the alpha here, so I’m supposed to be kept in the loop.”

“Easy,” Lydia answers. “Ada’s a sniveling traitorous bitch and I’m going to skin her alive.”

“Stiles’ date?”

“Herself.”

Stiles shakes his head. Ada was only doing what the Queen told her to. She didn’t know the specifics. She didn’t know that Stiles wasn’t Allison’s killer. Which means that to fulfill his part of the deal, he must find the Nogitsune and bring it to Morgan. The simple idea of touching the wooden box containing it is enough to make him nauseated and to bring a level of panic he can barely contain, but if he doesn’t, the Queen will kill him. And he’s not ready to die just yet.

Stiles takes a deep breath in and, resting most of his weight on Scott, leads his friends inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter, we finally get to the whole reason I wrote this fic! Allison having brown eyes when both her parents had blue eyes always made me crazy. I know it's possible, but it's so improbable I wanted to write a tiny one-shot with a changeling-based explanation. Well, the tiny one-shot is about 70k words and the changeling thing is almost a detail, because of course I had to add a whole plot to the thing ^^'
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	16. Another one bites the dust

Stiles is officially fed up. He needs to talk, and he doesn’t care about the stupid Seelie Queen and her punishments. So after listening to his friends trying to piece together whatever has been happening with less success than he’d hoped, he points at Derek and then at his own nape.

Lydia tries to argue that he’s too fragile right now, and he scowls at her. Scott wants him to get some sleep before they try, and Stiles glares at him. Malia raises her hands and declares him a grown man capable of making his own stupid-ass decisions and Stiles wants to kiss her. Which is a terrible idea, so he doesn’t.

Finally, after a ridiculous argument he can’t be a part of, Stiles turns to Derek, who agrees. “No memories,” he rules. “You stay in your mind palace. And please be quick, I’m not convinced this is such a good idea.”

But Stiles doesn’t care. He sits as comfortably as he can on the nuptial suite’s loveseat, Derek by his side, so close that their knees touch. Scott holds his hand, ready to take his pain away, not very concerned by the fact that Stiles is ruining his wedding night. Malia goes to the bathroom to change, getting ready for whatever happens next.

The jolt of pain is sharper than before, but it only lasts a second before he finds himself in his dad’s office. Derek is at the desk, but he immediately stands up and comes to Stiles’ side.

“You saved my life,” Stiles says.

“You saved yourself. The flames didn’t burn, I just helped you see that.”

“You should learn to accept the gratitude, dude. And not that I’m counting, but…”

“Don’t. It doesn’t matter. Now what did you want to say?”

Stiles bites his lip and weighs carefully his words. “The Seelie Queen wants me dead. She obviously had Ada push me, but technically, the deal I made with her didn’t call for my death. I’m supposed to bring her her daughter’s killer, but I didn’t kill Allison.”

“Sorry, stop there. What’s the relation between the Queen’s daughter and Allison? Also, isn’t Ada the Queen’s daughter?”

“The person we knew and loved as Allison was Ada, Morgan’s daughter. She was a changeling. Ada is the real Allison.”

“Okay,” Derek answers, trailing the ‘o’. “So the Queen wants Allison’s killer. And she thought it was you.”

“Yes, she obviously missed a couple episodes. So if I want to live, and I want to live, I must bring her the Nogitsune.” 

Derek tenses. “Do you think it’s such a good idea, giving the Seelie Queen an immortal evil spirit that she could use as a weapon?” 

“Honestly? I hope.” Stiles sighs. “She wants to kill it. And if my own experience is any indication, to make it suffer while it dies.” 

Derek doesn’t answer, as if waiting for a better reason, and Stiles has one, one he’s never said aloud because it would open the Pandora’s box of his fears and his worst nightmares. Derek’s silence slowly becomes oppressive, and Stiles finally opens his mouth again.

“We put the evil spirit who killed Allison and so many other people in a _tree_ , Derek. A tree it’s already escaped once. And I get that we didn’t get much choice, but now we have one. I don’t trust the Queen an instant, but she hates the Nogitsune as much as I do, and she’s powerful.” 

And even with magic, Stiles is powerless, he has no illusion about it. He lets a breath out. 

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he asks with a forced smile. “Tying all lose threads in one go?” 

Derek doesn’t look convinced. He opens his mouth and closes it again. His shoulders go down, and then he says, “Alright. We need to find the Nemeton. Lydia should still have her connection to it.” 

Good. They’re planning. Stiles is good at planning, and it’s a much easier conversation to have. He relaxes and puts his mind to the task. 

“Yes, and then, we need Ada to take us sideways and talk to the Queen. But you can’t look for her. I’m pretty sure she thinks you’ll tear her apart. And that Lydia wants to skin her alive. Wonder who gave her that idea.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Which means that Lydia and I are on Nemeton duty, and Scott, Malia and you are searching for Ada. How are you planning on finding her?”

“Magic.” Stiles smiles.

“No,” Derek answer immediately, his face taut with concern. “No, no and no. Magic has almost killed you what, twice now?”

Stiles refuses to count, especially since magic is a tool, and the only reason he died that one time is that he couldn’t handle it properly. He’ll be more careful; after all, he was able to pull the flames back.

“I can do it.”

Derek sighs. “I know you can.” He rubs his eyes with one hand. “But I don’t want to take the risk.” Stiles opens his mouth to answer something curt and probably harsher than he intends, but Derek cuts him. “Look, I don’t want to tell you how to live your life, but we can’t lose you. The other day was… Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Stiles answers without thinking. Because he does, and how could he not at this point?

“Then I’m going to take you to a memory of mine.”

“I thought we had to stay here?” Stiles asks innocently.

Derek doesn’t grace this with an answer and offers his hand to Stiles, who accepts it and stands up. Derek then stalks to the door, Stiles on his heel, and once they exit the office, they are in a library Stiles doesn’t know. The four walls are covered with books up to the ceiling in every space available, and piles and piles of books are scattered on the floor around a burgundy couch.

Stiles grabs a book at random, but he can’t read the words on the cover.

“This is my mind palace,” Derek provides. “It’s an old memory, I don’t remember the titles of the books. Not that they matter much right now.”

Looking through the window, Stiles finally realizes where they are: the Hale family home, the one that burned almost twenty years ago now. The preserve extends just outside the house, warm and welcoming in a way it never was for Stiles.

“That’s your home, isn’t it?”

“It’s my mind palace.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, but that’s not the memory I want to show you.”

Before Stiles can answer, Derek opens a book and the world shifts to Stiles’ childhood home. They’re in the kitchen, softly lit green by the serum. It’s in a glass on the counter, but nobody seems to care. In fact, everyone is gathered around something on the ground.

And the something is himself.

Stiles watches himself lying on the ground, unmoving and much too pale. His eyes are unfocused, almost like…

“Did I... Did I really die?” he asks Derek, his voice struggling.

“For a little while,” the werewolf answers, much calmer than he ought to be.

The memory is frozen in time, and Stiles looks at his friends, one after the other. Lydia is pressing her fingers against his wrist, her face turned toward the door. She’s in the middle of shouting something and her hair is flying around her head. Mason is kneeling by her side, his knees still floating over the floor, and he’s staring at Inès. The woman has a hand over Stiles’ forehead, and her eyes are closed.

And Derek… Derek is the only part of the memory that moves, probably because he’s the only reliving it. His hands are intertwined and pressed over past-Stiles’ chest. CPR.

Present-Stiles shudders and steps back. It’s one thing to know intellectually that he died for a little while, it’s another entirely to see himself lifeless.

Then, with a rush, time starts again.

“Melissa!” Lydia shouts and a flurry of footsteps answers her.

“What do I do, what do I do, what do I do,” Mason repeats endlessly, his body swinging, his eyes still focused on Inès like she has all the answers he lacks.

Inès puts her hands on past-Stiles’ temples. “He’s still there,” she whispers.

“Then bring him the fuck back,” Derek growls. “You hear me, Stiles? Don’t you fucking dare die.”

“I can’t. I… _Il faut rompre la connexion_ ,” she answers, losing her English.

“And how do we break the connection?” Lydia asks, her voice strained.

Melissa joins them and only stops for a second at the sight of Stiles lying on the ground before switching to her ER persona. “Keep doing CPR, Derek. How long has his heart stopped, Lydia?”

“About ninety seconds, but Derek started CPR a minute ago.”

After that, Melissa and Lydia talk with each other about calling an ambulance, but Inès tells them it’s useless. Instead, she asks Mason to find mistletoe and to put it into a circle around the serum. There’s a flurry of movement, but all Stiles can see is Derek keeping him alive. For the first time since they met, the werewolf is sweating heavily, but not losing his concentration. His lips move silently, and Stiles realizes he’s repeating the same words over and over again.

“ _Another one bites the dust_? Really?” he asks.

“The tempo is just right for CPR.” Derek’s voice is different when it’s the present one talking. Less raw somehow.

Stiles smiles, even though his heart isn’t into it. And suddenly, past-Stiles takes a breath in. Lydia catches Derek’s hand to stop him, and when he realizes that Stiles’ heart is beating, relief overflows his face, and he all but collapses on top of past-Stiles’ chest.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Derek whispers.

Lydia puts a hand over his shoulder and he raises his face. “He’s okay,” she says, as if she’s trying to convince herself too.

Derek casts her a shaky smile before putting his ear on past-Stiles’ chest, just above his heart. He remains like that, his eyes closed, while Melissa instructs Lydia and Mason to go prepare a bed for Stiles.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Derek says, his voice hoarse, and Stiles isn’t sure which version is talking. “Lydia too. And we can’t. We can’t lose you, not again.” Derek sits up, and it’s now clear it’s the present one talking. “I’m not going to tell you not to use your magic, because like Malia so elegantly put it, you’re a grown man capable of making your own dumb decisions, but please be careful. Scott needs you. Lydia needs you. _I_ need you.”

Stiles swallows hard. For someone who felt so lonely, so disconnected from his friends, he sure scared them. “I’ll be careful. I’ll try to find her without magic first, okay? Just don’t… Don’t go all emotional on me now, sourwolf. Bared teeth and slightly subdued aggression, remember?”

That’s enough to bring a smile to Derek’s face, and then Stiles opens his eyes and he’s back to the nuptial suite. Lydia looks at him like he’s precious, Scott smiles widely and forgets to let go of his hand, Derek gives him a simple nod, and even Malia, now wearing a tank top and shorts with still the LED-decorated sneakers, welcomes him back.

Derek goes over the plan while Scott cleans up and dresses Stiles’ nape wound, and they split into two groups, not before Derek makes Stiles promise once more to be careful. Stiles then follows Scott and Malia outside, and listens to them calling Ada’s name with little success. They search the gardens, but there are too many places where someone raised by the Fay could hide.

Stiles puts his hand over Scott’s shoulder to stop him, and then uses him as a guide dog while he closes his eyes and focuses on the ball of his magic. He wants to try the same spell that’s helped him find the notebooks, hoping that his magic will moor onto the magic the Queen has put on her daughter the same way it did back at the operation theater.

Maybe it’s because he’s become better at using his magic, or maybe it’s because the place is filled with supernaturals, but Stiles feels people around him. Scott, which is easy, because he’s holding his arm, but still, there’s this feeling of strength and goodness and safety; this feeling of home. But he also feels Malia, who’s running ahead of them; she’s fire and instincts and courage.

There are other sensations coming to him; shyness, fear, warmth, calm, fun… Too many for him to be able to identify anyone. And nothing he recognizes as the Queen’s magic. Stiles reopens his eyes and takes a deep breath. He needs a break. Actually, he needs to think. Where would Ada hide?

Malia comes back to their side. “I think I caught her smell.”

Scott inhales but shakes his head. “You’re so good at tracking, it’s disheartening.”

Malia laughs easily and grabs him by the arm. “Come on, husband, you’re still a better runner than I am.”

She starts running, a chuckling Scott in tow, and Stiles follows with all the speed he can muster. He’s got nothing on the two shifters, though, and they have to slow down not to lose him. Malia seems to be having a good time, making circles around the two men and laughing her heart off, and Scott joins her one moment, before turning back to his worried alpha face. Stiles missed this. Werewolf tag is the best game in the world. For a moment, he forgets the gravity of the situation. According to his phone, sunrise is in six hours, and the Queen can hopefully not touch him before that, why not have the little bit of fun?

And then, as suddenly as she started running, Malia stops, Stiles and Scott following suit. She whispers something to her husband—that’s going to need some getting used to—and they split, Malia to the left, Scott to the right, Stiles on his heel.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Ada,” Scott says on his kindest tone. The one he uses on scared dogs at his clinic and on Stiles when he’s panicking. “I think we need to talk. Stiles didn’t kill Allison, it was a creature called a Nogitsune who took his appearance.”

Scott then goes onto explaining the whole possession thing, and it takes seeing Malia prowling behind the trees to make Stiles realize that this is a distraction. The werecoyote points at the top of a tree, and Stiles sees Ada, still wearing her blue dress but not the shoes, sitting on a branch as comfortably as she would on a couch.

“Our friends are bringing the Nogitsune, but we need you to help us explain to the Queen. Do you think you can do that?”

“Fuck you,” Ada shouts in answer.

“Your girlfriend is lovely,” Scott says, a smile on his face.

Stiles shrugs, and as he does, he notices Malia silently climbing a free a few feet behind Ada’s.

“I heard that, and I’m definitely not his girlfriend.”

“You really like them feisty,” Scott tells Stiles. He’s trying to aggravate her to keep her from noticing Malia, who’s still making her way up. Clever. If he can’t coax her into coming down, Malia can force her to. Stiles would join in the effort if he could. “Malia, Lydia, and now Ada.”

This is all a show to distract Ada, Stiles repeats himself, and punches Scott’s arm with a smile. And for one second, he wonders if there’s a name he should add to the list. Because he certainly has a type.

“Come on, you know it. Am I right, Ada?”

“Can you just fuck off and leave me out of your stupid debates?”

She’s pouting, and it’s a strange expression to see on Allison’s face. Stiles has to focus on her blue eyes to remind himself that she’s not Allison. Thankfully, Scott cannot see through the glamour. Of course, he knows that she’s a changeling, but knowing and seeing are two different things.

“Nope. I still need you to talk to the Queen.”

“And what then? If I take your side, she’ll destroy me. If I take hers, you’ll kill me. I’m fine in my tree and I intend on staying there.”

She’s scared of the Queen. She’s scared that her own mother—well, adoptive mother—will kill her. There must be something he can do, something that will save him and her both. _Think, Stiles, think._ She’s a changeling, she’s Chris’ daughter, and she deserves to choose which world she wants to live in. She’s spent twenty-five years sideways and…

Wait. Twenty-five years. The first time Stiles saw her was on Allison’s twenty-fifth birthday. That’s too specific to be a coincidence. He shuffles in his pocket, looking for his phone and struggling to remember where he put it. Scott tenses just a little, but if Stiles didn’t know him better than he knows himself, he wouldn’t have noticed. He finally finds the phone and looks for the text messages he exchanged with Derek that night at _Jungle_.

From Stiles: _I wouldn't have picked today_

From Derek: _Allison's birthday_

From Stiles: _Her twenty-fifth_

Stiles shows the screen to Scott, who frowns. The werewolf reads the messages a couple more times, but still doesn’t understand.

“What are you trying to tell me?”

Stiles licks his lips. How to explain without words? He points at the word _twenty-fifth_ and then at Ada.

“You want me to ask her how old she is?”

Stiles nods, and Scott raises his head to ask the question.

“Why do you care?” Ada answers.

“I don’t. Stiles does.”

“I’m twenty-five of your years,” she relents.

Stiles shows the date of the messages on his phone to Scott, who understands quicker this time.

“Was your birthday on Tuesday?”

“Yes. Why does that matter? Do you have a belated gift for me?”

Stiles smiles widely and nods. If he’s right, the deal between Morgan and Victoria has an expiration date. And how could it not have one? The Queen must have wanted her daughter back. The only reason she could have had for the deal in the first place was to protect the real Ada—how ironic—so she needed her back at some point. Some point, like her twenty-fifth birthday. Which explains why Ada suddenly made her apparition on Tuesday.

And if he’s right, he has a plan that will keep him alive, give Ada her freedom, and annoy Morgan as a bonus. And for once, he doesn’t even need to explain it beforehand. Everything is already set and in motion.

Focused on his thoughts, he doesn’t notice Malia grabbing Ada into a hold until the latter screams. After a short struggle, they’re both back to the ground, Malia holding tightly Ada by the arm. Stiles brushes a hand over Ada’s shoulder to reassure her, and then removes Malia’s hand, giving her a thumbs up to tell her Ada’s not a danger. He’s not sure the message gets across, but Malia doesn’t grab her again, which is a little victory.

“So what now?” Ada asks, her voice almost as cold as her mother’s.

“Now we go back to the gardens,” Scott answers, “and we wait for our friends to come back with Allison’s killer. Then we’ll tell you the whole story, and you can ask as many questions as you want to any of us.”

“Why?”

“So that you know we’re not lying. So that you help us convince your mother.”

“And if I don't believe you?”

“You go your own way, wherever that may be.”

“And Stiles?”

“We protect him. And we kill everything that comes for him.” For the first time, Scott’s voice sounds threatening and his eyes flash red. Stiles thinks it's still for show, but he silently hopes it’s not. He hopes they're back to the friendship they had back in high school, before life toe then apart, even though he's not sure how. Does he even deserve it?

They get back to the hotel without any issue, and Ada refuses to talk until Derek and Lydia are back with the Nogitsune. She's still not convinced this is not a hoax, but Stiles can see they're wearing her down. She sits on the loveseat, her hands between her knees, and her eyes slowly move from one of her companions to the other. Her face is closed, but not angry anymore, and not scared anymore.

When Derek and Lydia, still wearing her heels despite her forest walk, come back with the mountain ash box, Ada stares at it for a long time, frowning as if she could see the Nogitsune inside. But she can’t, right? She’s human, just like him, and even though he feels the spirit’s presence, the box looks just like a box.

The six of them sit in a circle, Stiles and Ada on the loveseat, and the other taking spaces on the bed or on the ground. Scott and Lydia tell the story of how Stiles got possessed as clinically as they can, and they both sound so detached that it almost feels like it happened to someone else.

Ada asks short questions from time to time and rubs her hands together while listening attentively. She doesn’t seem to realize that she’s the only person who wasn’t there then who now knows the story. Stiles has barely talked about it with his father and Scott, let alone an outsider. It’s painful to hear his weakness and his pain drawn out for someone else to see, but he doesn’t see another way. They need Ada to take them sideways.

Malia doesn’t say a word, and she looks bored. Well, Stiles would probably be bored too if he didn’t still dream of a raspy voice asking him riddles. Derek doesn’t say a word either, but he’s looking at his feet and doesn’t raise his head once.

“I believe you,” Ada says after they’ve rehashed the most terrifying part of Stiles’ life in at least three different ways. “I’m not sure I can convince my mother, but I will try.”

“Thank you,” Scott says, his sweetest asymmetrical smile on his lips.

“However,” she adds, raising an index finger.

“Of course there’s a _however_ ,” Lydia hisses.

“However,” Ada continues, “if she decides she doesn’t like my explanation, you will protect me just like you will protect Stiles. I am not taking any chances.”

She’s trying for a commanding tone, but she’s lost her verve at some point of the evening. Still, she’s bluffing her way, pretending she has all the cards, but everyone in the room knows she doesn’t. Of course, having her on their side would help, but if they don’t, they’ll find another way. They always do.

“Obviously,” Scott answers, his voice a bit softer. “We wouldn’t leave you to the Queen’s mercy after you’ve helped us.”

“Of course,” Ada says with all the bravado she still has. Her shoulders visibly relax, and she finally sets her hands on her knees. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, you can’t take us to the Queen before dawn, can you?”

She shakes her head.

“Then we sleep for a few hours, and then you’ll take us to the Queen.”

“I can’t take everyone! I can take Stiles and maybe another person, but not everyone.”

Stiles immediately looks at Scott, his best friend and his alpha, and then almost as quickly as Derek, the only person he has been able to talk with in the past few days. The two werewolves exchange silently, all looks and eyebrows.

“I’ll go,” Scott finally says.

“Not you.” Ada crosses her arms. “You’re an alpha, and my mother cannot show any preference for a pack.”

“Well, once she singled out one of us to kill him, she’s shown her hand,” Lydia interjects.

“Not him, and not you either, banshee.”

“Why? Because I don’t agree with you?”

“No, because of what you are. And if you don’t understand why, maybe it’s time to crack open some books.”

Lydia raises a perfect eyebrow and she’s rarely seemed so offended. She doesn’t say a word, though, and starts typing quickly on her phone.

“Then I guess I’ll be the one.” Stiles has to turn his head to know who’s talked: Derek. And yeah, if he has to be in the vicinity of both the spirit that made him kill and the queen who tried to have him kill himself, he might as well go with Derek. The werewolf will protect him against the Queen, but Scott would have done the same. Derek, though, will keep him from hurting anyone else, and Scott could never do it. Which should be a good thing, but right now, Stiles feels safer with Derek than with his best friend.

Once everything’s decided, it’s time to go to bed, but honestly, nobody wants to leave the pack. So somehow, without anyone talking about it, Lydia and Stiles settle by Scott and Malia’s side in the bed, while Ada takes the loveseat, and Derek offers to take watch. He has a book to finish, he says.

It shouldn’t be comfortable, because even the giant bed is too small for four people, but Stiles hasn’t felt this safe in days, and this loved in months. He lies on his back, Lydia coiled against his right side, her head on his shoulder, and Scott settles on his left, looking at his best friend. Malia, ever the big spoon, has taken the side of the bed and slips a hand over Scott’s body to grab Stiles’.

What did he ever do to get friends like that? How could he think for one second that he didn’t belong with them? He’s been so out of it all for the last few days, and he isn’t sure why exactly. Maybe it’s the exhaustion and the unhealthy timetable he’s followed ever since he’s come back to Beacon Hills. Well, it’s almost done.

He casts a look at Derek, seated on the armchair, legs crossed, his e-reader resting against his knee. Stiles is pretty sure he hasn’t made a noise, but still, Derek raises his eyes and smiles softly, and in the faint light cast by the moon, he looks beautiful. Wait, is Stiles allowed to think that his friends are beautiful? Yes, yes, he must be. As long as he doesn’t say it aloud.

He smiles in return and turns on his side, pulling Lydia into his embrace, and pretending his heart is not beating louder that it ought to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter and an epilogue after this one! Thanks for reading!


	17. Between dazed and drunk

Stiles doesn’t want to carry the box, but he’s the one who has to give it to the Queen, so he’d better get used to it. Still, his hands are clammy and the only thing that keeps them from shaking is the fact that he’s holding tit against his chest with much more strength than needed. Derek has told him to relax twice already, but strangely, it just tenses him more.

Ada is guiding them in silence. Her hands in her sweater pockets, the hood covering her hair, dragging out her feet, she looks like a sulky teenager. Well, Stiles is not sure what kind of adolescence she’s had, so maybe it’s belated teenage angst. Mist rises around them, and soon enough, the trees become beeches again. Can one have a least favorite tree? Because Stiles’ is the beech.

The Queen is standing before them, and Stiles almost lets go of the box. Well, lets go of the box, but Derek catches it before it hits the ground, and gives it back to him with a dark look. Ada puts a knee to the ground and inclines her head in deference, and there’s no way Stiles or Derek are going to follow suit.

Morgan is wearing a real leather armor this time, dark brown leather covering every inch of her body up to her chin. Her hair is gathered in a tight bun and she doesn’t have a tiara or any jewelry. Two thin and shiny swords hang on her belt and there’s a bow on her back. But none of this is what makes her scary.

That would be the fireballs hovering on her palms, their light reflected in her wide eyes. Her nostrils are flaring and she’s standing in a fighting stance, her feet wide apart and ready to charge.

“Why is he still alive?” she roars.

“Because he did not kill your daughter, Mother.”

“Didn’t he now…” The Queen’s voice is still raw and heavy, shrilling with anger, and the fireballs light up.

“He was possessed. He wasn’t in control of his actions,” Ada tries, her voice shaking. “He…” Her voice dies with a glare from her mother, and she lowers her head even deeper.

“Your Majesty, if I may,” Derek says, his voice flat.

Morgan’s eyes leave Ada’s silhouette with reluctance, and she turns to look at him as if she was discovering his presence. She finally nods to allow him to speak.

“My name is Derek.”

“Derek Hale, son of Talia Hale, and alpha of the Beacon Hills pack for the most part of a year. I know who you are, and I don’t care very much.”

The insult is clear in her voice, but Derek doesn’t flinch. He waits for a beat, and as she remains unmoved, emotionally and physically, he continues.

“I cannot begin to understand the loss of a child, but I have mourned my entire family, and I have wanted revenge. I’ve felt it consuming me, guiding me through all my actions. I ignored everything around me that didn’t stoke that fire in me, and I pushed everyone away.

“Then, my family’s murderer was killed, her throat ripped for her actions. And with my vengeance exacted, with my anger gone, I was empty. The only thing that remained was the loss, the pain. I sleepwalked through life, I made bad decision after bad decision, all in the pursuit of feeling something, anything other than this pain. I don’t wish that upon you.

“Also, Stiles didn’t kill your daughter. Thankfully, we caught her killer and packed it. We will give it to you, you’ll be free to play with it as you wish, but please do not release it. I don’t want another child to die.”

The Queen closes her hands, extinguishing the fireballs. There are worry lines on her brow, and her eyes have gone back to their normal brown color.

“What kind of murderer fits in a such a small box?”

“A spirit. Evil Japanese fox spirit, called a Nogitsune. It possessed Stiles and toyed with him to fill his need for chaos.”

Derek is not telling the entire story this time, and Stiles is glad of the fact, because he can’t hear it a second time. He can’t have another outsider know just how weak he is. Ada was enough.

The Queen brings her hand to the box and brushes her fingers against the mountain ash. She closes her eyes and her lips part as she draws a quick breath. She looks terribly older in that moment, her hair so blond it looks white, her skin so white it looks like a marble tombstone. She shivers and draws her hand away. The long pale fingers hang in the air for an instant.

“You are saying the truth,” she whispers and then opens her eyes. “There is a demon inside the box. It feels amused by our meeting. I do not like it.”

“We neither. It’s a monster.”

She licks her lips, her eyes unfocused. “I shall take the box. The spirit will stay with me until I find a safe way to dispose of it.”

She waves a hand, and Stiles’ mouth is suddenly filled with words. He opens it to discharge them.

“Don’t,” the Queen interrupts, raising a hand to shush him. “I am not in the mood. Your deal with me is settled, and the two of you will be sent back to your own world momentarily.”

She takes the box with all the care in the world and stares at it as if she could see the Nogitsune inside. Maybe she can. They are dismissed, she’s already forgotten about them, but Stiles has a theory, and this is the only time he can test it. He should probably be scared of the Queen, but he has his words now, and Derek is by his side, and nothing bad can happen. Right?

“Twenty-five years ago, you made a deal with Victoria Argent, didn’t you?”

“That doesn’t concern you. Eoin, take them back.” She turns her back as a man steps in our direction.

“I would like to know, Mother,” Ada says, and the Queen stops in her tracks. “I believe this concerns me.”

The Queen sighs. “Very well.” She rotates to look at her daughter. “I made a deal with Ms. Argent. I gave her a child for her promise to protect mine.”

“And she would take care of your daughter for twenty-five years, after which you would exchange them again,” Stiles says with a smile at the corner of his mouth. He’s right, he knows it, and he can catch the Queen in, if not a lie, a very vague approximation of the truth.

“I do not like your tone, young man.”

“But that’s true. That’s why you only sent Ada to our world now. Because you couldn’t before, and you needed her to haunt me, to make me drown in guilt.”

“Your insolence is duly noted. I have been nothing but courteous to you until now, and this is how you choose to thank me.”

“Your word is nothing if you don’t keep your deals,” Stiles answers with all his spite. “So you will release Ada and let her meet her real family, or I will tell the entire world that you can’t be trusted.”

“I am the Seelie Queen, child. You cannot threaten me. I shall squash you like the insect you are.”

“No you won’t,” Derek interjects, understanding in his eyes, and Stiles feels really proud of him in that moment, because this wasn’t the easiest part to guess, and yet, it’s the most important. “You can’t kill him. I’m not sure why, but you wouldn’t have used such a complicated plan that could fail at any step if you could simply kill him. Hell, you tried to have him kill himself, how fucked up is that?”

The Queen simmers, even though it’s barely visible.

“Politics,” Stiles adds. “I’m under the protection of the Beacon Hills alpha, which means she can’t hurt me without starting a war. If I hurt myself, well, that’s a different story.”

The Queen casts Stiles a look that makes him regret ever mentioning Victoria’s deal. Maybe he was wrong, maybe she just likes convoluted plans. He keeps himself from stepping back.

“Mother,” Ada says, her voice hopeful. “I would like to visit Earth and meet my father. It doesn’t mean I won’t come back.”

And with those words, the Queen’s anger dissipates. Her shoulders relax, and her face melts like a wax mask. For the first time, she looks human. Older and frailer. She sets the box on top of a root that grows to catch it and then walks toward Ada.

“I can’t lose you too.” The Queen whispers, but the wind carries her voice like it would a dead leaf. “You’re all I have left.”

“You’ve reopened the doors. I can travel between the worlds as I wish.”

The Queen takes Ada in her arms, holding her tightly. Morgan is tall, but she’s resting her head on her daughter’s shoulder and looks tiny. Fragile. Broken. She whispers even lower words that only Ada can hear, and after a while, Ada hugs her back.

Stiles looks away from the private moment they’re sharing, and his eyes fall on Derek’s. He sends him a small smile, unsure of how much pride in what they’ve accomplished he can display in front of the Queen, however occupied she might be right now, and Derek nods in return.

The Queen finally makes her farewell to her daughter, and after promising to come back very soon, Ada disappears between the trees. Stiles follows before losing her entirely, and as he steps out of the clearing, he hears Morgan’s voice.

“Mr. Hale,” she calls. 

“Yes, your Majesty?” Derek answers politely.

There’s a pause, a hesitation. “What would you suggest I do now?” she asks, her voice breaking at the words.

Stiles stops. He wants to hear what comes next. Never mind following Ada back to his own world. He presses his back against a beech—fuck beeches—and listens carefully.

“Now that your revenge is in your hands?” Derek asks, his voice flat.

“And now that you’ve taken my last remaining daughter from me.”

“I’m sorry about that, but if you think…”

“I know that it is in her best interest, but it does not make it any easier on me.”

Derek sighs. “Well, you find something. Something you want, something you like. Something that brings you back to life when you feel dead inside. Something that lights the darkness inside your heart. Something that cleans the blood of your hands, even if it can never leave your mind. Something that makes you laugh, or cry, or scream, or feel anything, really. Something that keeps you grounded, that anchors you to reality.”

Stiles presses a hand over his own mouth. His heart is beating too loud, Derek must hear it. Because the werewolf is talking about him. He’s telling the Seelie Queen to find an anchor the way Stiles was his. And Stiles isn’t sure he realized until now that being someone’s anchor is about so much more than controlling the shift. It’s about keeping them _human_. How could he do this when he doesn’t even know how? Is there a book on the subject? A forum, a wiki, anything?

“You keep saying _something_ ,” the Queen says, “but somehow, I hear _someone_.”

“Well, in my case it was a someone, but it can be anything, really. Painting, badminton, cross stitch if that’s your fancy. Or it could be trying to be a better person for Ada. You scare her, you know.”

“You do not get to tell me how to raise my child,” the Queen growls. “But I shall take it into consideration.” Her voice softens. “Now go join your friends. I will take good care of the demon, do not worry.”

Stiles pushes himself from the tree and walks in the direction of the clearing.

“Ah, Derek, I thought we’d lost you on the way.”

The werewolf looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Did you…” he starts, but he can’t finish the sentence.

“I stepped back to find you. Did you get lost?” Stiles offers.

Derek relaxes. “Of course not, I’m not you. Let’s go home and never come back to this place. My senses are so muddy, it reminds me of those few months where I was human.”

“Well, as a human, I can tell you that it feels more like being on the up side of tipsy.”

“Drunk, you mean.”

“No, between dazed and drunk.”

“That’s a very helpful comparison for a werewolf, thank you very much Stiles.”

Stiles smiles. He really likes their banter, and when he looks at Derek, he can see that it’s mutual.

“Did the two of you get lost?” Ada asks when they finally find her, and Stiles can’t repress his laugh. She looks at him, confused, but he waves her off.

“By the way,” he asks instead of answering, “what’s the deal with your eyes?”

“My eyes?” Her frown deepens. “What about my eyes?”

“Well, they’re blue.”

“Yes? They’ve always been?”

“I’m not sure I’m following either, Stiles,” Derek says.

Honestly, Stiles thought this specific line of questioning would be obvious, but maybe not being able to talk has made him a bit more introspective.

“Allison, our Allison, she had brown eyes. And she was wearing a glamour to look like you, wasn’t she? But you have blue eyes. Which, obviously, since both Victoria and Chris have blue eyes.”

“Oh, that. Glamour doesn’t work on eyes. Windows to the soul and all that.”

“Oh.” Stiles is a bit disappointed. “I thought there would some… I don’t know, fairy explanation? Some reason the Queen chose to make Allison brown-eyed, maybe? But at least, it finally answers the question I’ve been asking myself since I first met Victoria and Chris: Allison wasn’t really their child.”

“Really,” Derek says. “You’ve known since high school.”

“Well, yeah. It’s possible for two blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child, but it’s highly unlikely. So of course I’ve been wondering, and of course I’ve kept it to myself. Because it didn’t really matter, did it?” Stiles licks his lips. “Well, in hindsight, I probably should have asked. Maybe Scott’s wedding would have been a tad more peaceful.”

“We’re in Beacon Hills,” Derek reminds him. “Nothing is ever peaceful here.”

Stiles looks at him, and they share a conniving smile.

“Still want to visit our world, Ada?”

She looks at them like they’re crazy. “As long as someone else plays tour guide.”

Stiles wonders how they will introduce her to Chris, but as it happens, Scott has already prepared the hunter. Still, when he meets his daughter for the first time, he looks stunned. Stiles remembers how he felt when he saw Ada for the first time, barefoot and looking like a ghost, and he sympathizes.

Melissa is there too, and she’ll be the one taking care of Ada. They don’t say why, but it’s obvious that Chris needs to get used to the idea of seeing his dead daughter’s face on someone who happens to be his real daughter. That’s a lot to swallow.

As Melissa chats with Ada, telling her she’ll need some clothes that are not borrowed plaid, Chris takes Stiles away. They walk into the hotel, take the elevator and enter Chris’ room, and Stiles realizes the hunter is putting as many doors as he can between them and the werewolves. That can’t be good.

“I have an apology to make,” Chris finally says, his voice low and steady. “You came to me, and I didn’t listen to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You asked me if I still saw her. I didn’t think for one instant you were talking literally. I projected my own guilt on you and I shouldn’t have. I’m truly sorry.”

Stiles swallows hard. He was not expecting that, and he’s not sure how to answer it. He tries to remember their conversation over pancakes, less than a week ago but it feels like a year.

“I’m pretty sure it didn’t give you enough information to make you realize I was seeing a ghost, who happened to be your daughter. No one would have jumped to that conclusion.”

“No, but I could have told you about ghosts.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “Ghosts do exist? But they’re not in the bestiary!”

“Of course not, they’re not beasts.”

“But werewolves are?”

Chris’ mouth opens, but he doesn’t answer immediately. “I see your point. You’ll have to take it up with someone who’s not retired. Anyway, ghosts are the bread and butter of most hunters. Haunted houses, cursed objects, vengeful spirits…”

“You just changed my entire world. Do you get the ramifications? Ghosts mean afterlife. Or… Maybe they mean there isn’t one? I mean, if they’re stuck on Earth, it means they have nowhere else to go to. Are there books on the subject? Websites, _ghostiaries_? Have you ever seen one? How do you fight one? Well, you said most hunters, so I guess you didn’t hunt ghosts yourself? Did Allison come back as a ghost? Did my mom?”

Stiles only stops the questions to take a quick breath in, but Chris puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Allison could not come back as a ghost, because I took my precautions. Hunters always do. As for the rest of your questions, I’ll give you the right documentation, but we don’t have all the answers.” Chris closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Your house is not haunted, Stiles. And that’s a good thing, because ghosts are not happy creatures.”

Stiles is still thinking of that odd conversation when they get back to Scott. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to forget it, actually. So he asks Derek to take him home and mindlessly gives his Jeep’s keys to Scott, who beams.

“You’ve repaired it?”

Stiles nods before remembering he can talk. But before he can think of something to say, Ada explains. “He’s infused it with so much magic it came to his rescue and flattened an evil prince against a wall.”

“That’s what happened?” Stiles asks. “The Jeep just… came alive? From my magic?”

“Yes. It won’t last forever, it’s already draining away, but you didn’t feel the bond?”

Stiles remembers the warmth, the smell, the comfort; the way the Jeep purred like a happy kitten; the way he felt safe inside the bodywork. It was obvious now that she was saying it, but in his defense, he’s never had any formal magical training, and he’s been improvising for days now.

“Take good care of him,” Stiles asks Scott.

“Him? Your Jeep is a _he_?”

“Well, he cannot be an _it_ anymore, can he?”

“Yeah, but aren’t all cars girls?”

Stiles smiles at Scott’s stunned expression. “Isn’t that a bit sexist?” he asks with a smile, and Scott gives up with a shrug. It’s taken him twenty years, but he’s learned that the stupider the subject, the more Stiles will argue.

Stiles finally gets to sit in the passenger seat of the Camaro, covered with Derek’s suit jacket on top of his, but despite the comfort and the warmth, he cannot fall asleep. So many things have happened since Tuesday… Wow, has it only been four days and half since he arrived in Beacon Hills? Well, he’s not sure he knows how to even start to process it all. But one thing is sure: he can’t go back to the monotony of Boston.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, but isn’t sure how to continue. Derek remains silent, but Stiles catches a glance from him. “I know, never a good sign, but… Are you happy? I mean, here, in Beacon Hills, despite the memories and everything that keeps happening?”

Derek takes a right turn before answering. This is not the shortest path to Stiles’ house, but he doesn’t care. “I came back, didn’t I?”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You never ask easy questions.”

“Those are boring.”

Derek smiles. “They are. I’m not happy. I’m not sure I’ve ever been happy in my life. Maybe with Paige, but that was too long ago. But when I was in South America, there was something missing, and I forced myself to ignore it, because…”

Derek sighs and it takes all of Stiles’ willpower not to interrupt him during the pause.

“Because I thought it was just being away from my anchor. But when I came back, I realized that I missed Beacon Hills and the pack. I missed Chris, Melissa, and your dad too. And maybe that makes me sound crazy, but after a year fencing off assorted monsters, everything was a bit dull.”

“Well, if that sounds crazy, then there are two of us.”

Derek takes a dirt path that leads into the preserve and finally parks the car under the trees. Stiles can hear a waterfall in the distance, and he knows the forest well enough to figure out that they aren’t far from the place where the Hale house used to stand.

Derek exits the car and Stiles follows without a question. They sit on the hood of the car—which Stiles wouldn’t have dared if Derek hadn’t done it first.

“I could use a break before going back to what passes for normal life,” Derek offers. “I thought you could too.”

“Yeah.” _Very articulate thank you, Stiles._

“Are you thinking of coming back to Beacon Hills?”

“That’d be derailing the ten-year plan. Then again, the ten-year plan sucks, so… But there are things to consider. Lydia, the apartment, my job, Matagot…” Stiles sighs.

“Well, maybe you can’t exactly put your name under wizard in the phone book, but you could always apply to become a PI here. With a bit of word-of-mouth, supernatural clients will certainly be coming to you.”

Stiles smiles. “That’s what you’ve been reading all week. _The Dresden Files_. That’s awesome. What book are you at? Are Michael and Thomas there already? Have you seen Mouse?”

Derek smiles, showing his teeth. “What if I have?”

“Well, we’ll have to compare notes, obviously.”

“Sure, we will. But remember, we were talking about your future. That’s slightly more important than books.”

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t read _Blood rites_ yet. Okay, okay, I’m stalling. Future, important thing.”

“I checked, and you already fill most of the requirements to become a PI here, with your law enforcement experience.”

“You checked the requirements? If I didn’t know better, I would say you want me to come back, mister.” Stiles is all cheek and good fun, but he’s actually moved.

“Someone needs to properly set up the clue boards. Our tape usage is apparently distracting.”

Stiles chuckles, and Derek joins him. It’s liberating, hearing his own laugh and sharing it with a friend. “Well, now that I have the rough outline of the beginning of an idea for a job, I just have to think of everything else. Somewhere to live, Lydia… I have to break up with Lydia, don’t I?”

“Didn’t you break up like a year ago?”

“Yeah, but…” And he’s not sure what comes after. Yes, but they’re still living together. Yes, but he always thought they’d get back together. Yes, but he hasn’t told her he isn’t in love with her anymore.

“You haven’t dated anyone since Lydia, have you?”

Stiles raises his head, surprised by the softness of Derek’s voice. He tries to catch his eyes, but the werewolf is looking away.

“No.” His throat hurts and the words barely pass his lips. “But in my defense, it’s not easy to find someone who's dateable _and_ knows about the supernatural.”

“It doesn’t have to be a prerequisite.”

“It kinda does, when you’re covered in scars that are impossible to explain any other way.”

He lifts the bottom of his dress shirt and undershirt, exposing a long and angry line going from side to side. He did this one to himself while fighting the Nogitsune. “I could always say it was an emergency surgery, but I would have to hope for little questioning on that part. But that one is almost easy. How do I explain this?”

He opens the top three buttons of his shirt and pulls it and his undershirt both to show Derek the scar on the back of his shoulder. Derek gasps and even though he can’t see him, Stiles feels him shift closer. He doesn’t move.

“That’s a wendigo bite, isn’t it? What the hell happened to you after I went away?” He pauses. “That’s the bad thing you were talking about.”

“Yeah. Well no.” And then Stiles finds himself telling the whole story, keeping his back to his friend the whole time, incapable of facing him.

He tells Derek about Donovan and his father. He tells him about the Dread Doctors and their experiments. He tells him about that day when Donovan cornered him out of school, and how he hit him with a wrench after Donovan bit him. He tells him of his running to the library, and Donovan threatening the Sheriff. He tells him about his fear and his rage and his pain and his panic.

He tells Derek about the scaffolding and that pin. About Donovan’s scream. About climbing, hoping he was dead. Hoping he was alive. Both at the same time, like an even more fucked-up version of Schrodinger’s cat.

He tells Derek that he was lonely afterwards, no matter how many people there were around him, because he was keeping this secret. Because nobody would stay by his side if they knew he’d killed someone.

And then he’s out of words. He’s only told this story once before, to Scott, and he’s not sure why he’s now telling Derek, but it seems like something his friend should know. He lowers his head, staring at his hands, his fingers fidgeting but not trembling as he’d thought they would be.

Derek sighs. “Come here,” he finally says.

Stiles turns and looks at his friend as if it’s the first time. Derek’s face is tense, and he’s forcing half a smile. His arms are open and inviting.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, perplexed.

“Well, you look like you need a hug.”

Stiles should probably hesitate a bit more, but he actually does need a hug, so he dives into Derek’s arms and presses his head against the werewolf’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Derek starts, but he stops there.

Stiles isn’t sure if he needs comfort to get away from his crazy week, or courage to prepare him to go back to his boring life and tear it apart, but right now, he doesn’t care. He just relishes in the warmth and forgets about the world.

They don’t have to talk about this either. They’ve become really good at avoiding the awkward conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left now! I'll try to post it on Sunday, since it's much shorter than a normal chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	18. Epilogue

Ethan and Jackson are the first to go. Stiles promises he’ll come visit them in London; Ethan tells him he’s welcome anytime, Jackson grimaces, before sending him a genuine smile. Then, they leave in their rental car.

Lydia and Stiles are next to go, and everyone’s gathered in the sheriff’s house to make their goodbyes. Stiles tells Mason he’s glad he’s given him his bat. He makes the puppies promise to behave, even though they’re not really puppies anymore, and they nod in agreement. He smiles at Kira, hoping a reaction out of her, but nothing. He really has to come back, if only to soften her. He hugs Cora and tells her to take good care of her brother.

He thanks Inès once more for the henna tattoos she’s drawn again on his wrists and swears he won’t burn them out again. He shakes Isaac’s hand, before the werewolf pulls him into a hug and tells him that he better come visit on his way to annoy Jackson. London and Sarlat aren’t that far away.

Chris wishes him a good flight, and even wearing clothes that were obviously Malia’s, Ada still has that otherworldly quality to her, like she doesn’t belong, like she’s not sure she should be there. Still, she thanks Stiles before asking Chris if they can leave. Too many people, Stiles guesses.

Stiles congratulates Scott and Malia once more, hugging his best friend longer than necessary and swearing he’s not going to use magic until he’s studied the theory books Deaton lent him. Derek doesn’t act any differently than usual, and asks him to send a text when he’s arrived. Still, it touches Stiles, because it means he wants them to stay in contact.

He ends his goodbyes with his dad, promising he’ll come back soon. Whatever he decides, he should visit his father more often. Then, he takes the wheel of the rental car and asks Lydia if she’s ready. She nods and he drives away from his childhood home, already missing it by the time they reach the end of the drive.

He waits until the ‘Leaving Beacon Hills’ sign before finally daring to speak.

“Lyds?”

“Hm?” she answers without even looking at him.

“I think we need to talk.”

“Oh, oh.” She finally turns away from the window.

“What?”

“Nothing good ever comes out of these words.”

“Well, maybe this is the exception.”

She grimaces. She clearly doesn’t think so.

“Are you happy?” he asks.

“Hm, yeah I guess? I mean, happiness is an emotion, it comes and goes. But overall, I have my moments. Where does this come from?”

“I… I don’t think I’ve had those moments for months…” He stops himself, realizing what he’s just said. “I’m not blaming you or anything, I’m just only now noticing that… that I haven’t felt happy in a while.”

“That’s okay. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling.”

“I thought loving you would be enough. When we moved together, I was ecstatic, I suddenly had everything I wanted. My dream job, my dream girl. Well, I also had Boston, which I never really liked, but that didn’t matter. Listen to me babbling like an idiot.”

She smiles, her pink lips turned into an expression that lightens her entire face. She’s so beautiful he wonders how he could ever stop looking at her.

“You’re always babbling like an idiot. Never kept me from loving you.”

“I swear to you I’m trying to get to the point. I’m just not sure what the point actually is. We loved each other, but we put everything before us. My job, your PhD, of course, but also everything else. Like watching TV in those rare moments we could have spent together. We could have been great, I’m sure of that, but we didn’t even try. And there were all those times you forgot about me that were like a million paper cuts, and I’m sure I did the same to you.”

“Are you breaking up with me? Because we already did that. A year ago.”

“You did. But somewhere in my mind, I still thought it was only temporary. I thought that once you got your PhD, we would get back together, and it was stupid and I’m sorry.”

“No, I get it. All those things you said, the million paper cuts, I think I understood before you. Our relationship was dead and I’d been mourning it for a while when I broke up with you, but you’re only starting the process now, aren’t you?”

“Well, you were always smarter than me, Ms. Martin.”

“I’m trying. Not easy every day.” She bites her lip. “You still haven’t gotten to the point, have you?”

“No. I’m thinking of quitting.”

“Your job?”

“My job. You. The apartment. Boston.”

“That would be quite the change, and I would miss you very much. But I think you need this. You need a fresh start. Do you have plans?”

“Not really. A vague idea. Have you read _The Dresden Files_?”

She shakes her head, not even recognising the title. She must have seen him read them, it took him a while, but she never even noticed. He also remembers telling her about them a handful of times; clearly, he has some mourning to do.

“They’re those books about a wizard who’s investigating supernatural occurrences. I think I want to do that.”

“He’s a character in a novel. And I thought Inès had blocked your magic?”

“Not the wizard part, obviously.”

“Oh.”

“It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, no. It sounds like you. If there’s anything I can do to help, like decorating your future offices because you’re hopeless on that subject…”

“I’ll think about it. I hadn’t even thought about needing an office yet. This is crazy.”

“But you’re going to do it.”

“Yeah. I hate my job. It’s everything I ever wanted, and it sucks so badly I worry about my own mental health for ever wanting it.”

“You’re dramatizing.”

“I’m allowed. I’ve had a rough week.”

“This is a risk, it’s undeniable, but you have to take it. And if it doesn’t, I can let you crash on the world’s most uncomfortable couch for a while. I’m keeping the bed to myself, though. You keep fighting with the blankets and I’m always cold.”

He scoffs. She may have a point.

He starts fidgeting, his hands idly rubbing the wheel, because this is the hard part and he’s not sure how to broach the subject. Lydia puts a perfectly manicured hand over his and casts him a soft smile.

“You can tell me anything. The million paper cuts are in the past, promise.”

“When I move out, you can keep everything. The apartment, the furniture, the TV, the Xbox even. There’s just one thing I want and…”

“Stiles, just ask.”

“Matagot. I know she’s ours, but it’s not like we can have shared custody with the distance, and I need her. I love her.”

Lydia scrutinizes his face, looking for something she can’t find, and her smile widens until she starts laughing.

“What?”

“Matagot hates me,” she answers between two fits, “and I don’t like her very much in return. I think I freak her out, but every time I laugh, she bites my elbow. When I’m alone with her, she stares at me the entire time. When you’re here too, she stands constantly between the two of us, as if she has to defend you against me. You can’t tell me you’ve never noticed.”

“What? No, you’re paranoid.”

“That’s usually you. But no, I’m not. Please take your evil cat with you.”

“I will. I definitely will. And I’ll take the Xbox too. I’m sure it also hates you.”

She rests her head on his shoulder and slips her hand on the crook of his elbow.

“I love you, Stiles. I hope you’re happy wherever you’re going.”

“I hope so too.”

Stiles knows that starting a new life will be complicated and terrifying, but for now, he’s on the verge of being happy for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, this story is over! It doesn't look like much, but it took me 7 months to write it (and about 3 more to edit it). Fun fact: for those entire 7 months, it was called _Silly Queen_ , but a bad pun didn't make such a great title.
> 
> My SO watched bemused as I said "this will be a 10k words fic." Every once in a while, we would check the actual word count and chuckle. I still can't believe I've written over 70k words because a character's eye color bugged me.
> 
> And I've actually started working on a sequel, but I've only just begun, so I guess I'll see you in a few months!
> 
> Thank you for reading this story!


End file.
